Inherited Traits, Learned Behaviors, and Unexpecte
by SubRosa7
Summary: Selina Kyle is a friend and sometimes-business associate of Neal Caffrey's. She's also his biological mother, although Neal had never planned to share that bit of trivia with her. But then he had to, and things became...complicated.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Inherited Traits, Learned Behaviors, and Unexpected Gifts

Series: Inherited Traits  
Author: Susana  
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, etc., belong to DC or USA.

Summary: Selina Kyle is a friend and sometimes-business associate of Neal Caffrey's. Neal is quite fond of Selina. What former-con-artist-turned-FBI-consultant wouldn't be? She's classy, clever, a mostly-retired conwoman of the highest caliber, and the girlfriend of one of the wealthiest men on the planet. She's also Neal's biological mother, although he'd been friends with Selina for years before he bothered to share that little bit of trivia with her. After that...well, things became a little complicated, as very different people, tied together by blood and family, try to explain their past, and determine their future.

A/N: This is planned to be an AU Batfamily/White Collar crossover. I'm posting it as I have parts finished. The earlier parts will mostly be focused on the backstory of the characters in this AU, starting with Selina. No matter how I much I tried to write Selina in the third person, she insisted on telling her story in first person. I suspect other POV characters parts (Bruce, Dick, Tim, Neal, Peter, Damian, Cassie, Mozzie, etc.) will be written in the third person, and contain more dialogue, going back and forth between a sick Neal recuperating at Wayne Manor in the 'present,' and the pasts of all the different characters working up until the 'present.'

The back-story goes more or less like this...once upon a time, Selina Kyle gave her baby up for adoption. Years later, his adoptive parents were killed in a house fire set to make their murders look like an accident. Neal (who was then Nicolas) was spared his adoptive parents' fate because his mother was Catwoman. But Neal's fairly certain that no one ever told Selina that her child survived. And that's ok with Neal, because by the time he met Selina, he was well past the age when he needed a mother, anyway.

**Quote:**

"Of all God's creatures, there is only one that cannot be made slave of the lash. That one is the cat. If man could be crossed with the cat it would improve the man, but it would deteriorate the cat." - Mark Twain

**Inherited Traits, Learned Behaviors, and Unexpected Gifts: Chapter 1: Selina's Story **

One night didn't make my life, but it did alter the course of it. If my parents had never been murdered, Catwoman might never have been born. But the one did not directly cause the other, and I do not deceive myself by believing that it did.

But that is, perhaps, getting ahead of the story.

My father was an insurance agent. Not an actuary or a salesman or a manager, but rather an investigator. And he was very, very good at his job. And almost inflexibly moral. In my mother's eyes, it was one of his failings. With a woman's perspective, I can look back and see that it might have been at least a part of what first drew her to him, and what kept her with him. Mother was beautiful. Dark hair and dark eyes, she looked like Vivien Leigh yet possessed the sex appeal of Gretta Garbo. Daddy was ordinary, all except his eyes. His eyes were dark like mother's, yet full of hope, and warmth, and life. Things I think that my Mother must have lacked, growing up.

When she and Daddy met, Mother was still young. Just out of boarding school, and living with a distant cousin in Switzerland. Daddy's employers had sent him there to research the provenance of an painting, and Mother's cousin was a professor of art history. They fell in love, married, and in the due course of time had me. I was born in New York City, where we lived perhaps half the time. The rest of the year we traveled, going everywhere that Daddy's job sent him. We never had dogs, as dogs don't travel well. But Mother and I would often take in a stray cat for the length of our stay one place or another. Sometimes our furry friends ended up accompanying us to our next destination; more often, we found our kitties a new caregiver before we left.

I never went to school; it would have been pointless, given our lifestyle. I had private tutors, generally a new one in each place where we lived. It involved a certain period of work-up, but it allowed me to learn by immersion. My tutors only spoke English when we were in English speaking countries, as a rule.

My parents taught me, as well. Daddy loved history, and I explored the museums and great cultural meccas of the world at his side, my small hand clasped in his. He would also take me to courtrooms, parliaments, senates, and public debates.

"No person can ever be wholly good, Selena," he would explain to me, "But we owe it to ourselves and others to do our best, and to try to leave the world a better place than we found it."

My Mother taught me...other things. How to escape from anywhere. How to survive on my own in any locale. How to fight. Why or how she knew these things, I never learned. When you're handed your first lock-pick around the same time that you're handed your first doll, it's not a question that you ask right away. But I did know, even then, that there was a fierce side to Mother. Mother was a survivor, and while Daddy taught me appreciation for and respect towards my fellow man, Mother taught me to act, rather than just react. I loved them both, although they had fundamentally differing viewpoints on almost all of life's important questions. I never doubted that they both loved me.

Ironically, it was Daddy whose activities brought death to our door, one star-lit evening in South America when I was just thirteen. It was very cold that night. The chill prompted our current cat, Murcielaguito (named "Little Bat," for his big ears and high-pitched mews) to seek refuge with me in my bed. His cold nose on my wrist woke me, and I arose to get an extra blanket out of my closet. If not for that, I might have been asleep, and I would have died then. One could even say that I became Catwoman because of a Cat named Bat and a blanket. I told Bruce that once, or rather Batman, before he became Bruce. He's told me since that he had thought at the time that I was being flippant, rather than merely incoherent. That's why he glared at me, and tried to take me down even though he didn't particularly approve of the blood diamonds I'd stolen that night staying in the misery-stained hands of a prosperous death-dealer, either.

But it wasn't just Murcielaguito and the blanket which saved me. It was that Mother had drilled me, each time we moved, in how to escape from our home, to somewhere safe.

"Don't wake us up, Selena." She had repeated endlessly. "If we haven't come for you by the time you hear broken glass or screaming, then we are detained. Make your own way to our rendezvous point. And if we don't meet you within an hour, go someplace in the nearest large city that appeals to you. If we are alive, we will find you."

That cold star-lit night I heard screams and the sound of bullets, and so I fled as I'd been trained. Out the window I ran on silent feet, making a difficult jump to a neighboring building's balcony. Then through the neighbor's sleeping house, and out a back way. Onto a bus, and then three different bus rides to an all-night restaurant. Two strong cups of coffee earned by longing looks at the just-made pot, and then I was on my way to a cat zoo as the sun rose on a clear, sunny morn. My parents would have known where to find me, but they would have had to think about it.

They never came. My Mother, in her paranoid wisdom, had told me what to do in that eventuality, as well. She'd given me names, contact information for people whom she had trusted to look out for me. None of them were in South America, but I'd learned enough of how to get from one place to another without funds from Mother. The fact that I was a pretty young girl who looked several years older than her age took care of the rest. I learned caution, though, on that trip. Nothing bad happened to me, but it was as much luck as skill. It was a lesson that I would take to heart.

It was in Madrid that I met the first of Mother's 'friends.' It turned out that he was not a friend of my Mother's, but rather an old acquaintance of my grandfather's. I'd never known - nor even known of- my maternal grandfather. My parents had never mentioned him. But apparently, or at least according to everyone I ever met who knew him, he'd been a great man, during the Great War. I took from that information that he'd probably died young. It's hard to be commonly regarded as a great man if you live to any respectable age.

My Grandfather's friend kept a roof over my head, took care of all of my material needs, and continued my education. If his teachings skewed more to Mother's end of the spectrum, well, at that point in my life, that just seemed reasonable. But he would not help me find out what had happened to my parents, no matter how much I pestered.

"They are dead, and you are alive." He told me, "The best way to honor them is to stay that way."

It was good advice, but I was thirteen and angry and passionate about my goals. Not to mention leery of growing close to anyone else. So I drifted on from Madrid in time, and I don't think that he ever searched for me, or even thought of me again.

I found my own teachers, after that. What I already knew made it so that I was very much in demand, as a thief and confidence woman. I lived in Paris, and in Hong Kong. I worked jobs in in those places, and throughout different parts of Europe, Russia, Eastern Europe, Africa, Asia, and America. But it was in Switzerland, that I first learned what had happened to my parents. I was sixteen.

"A troublesome insurance investigator came up with a nonsense theory that this painting was stolen during the War, rather than purchased legitimately by my client from a procurer." The gentleman with dark glasses explained to the forger I was working with, at the time. "We need to steal the agent's notes, and replace them with something more...tentative. So that the insurance company does not suspect the substitution."

It was my job to steal the notes. I had taken on the commission because it dealt with the object d' art my father had been researching when he died. Years I'd wasted searching for something in my Mother's past that had caused armed men to murder my parents in the dead of night, and all that time it had been my father's attention to detail and moral rectitude which had attracted that kind of attention.

I did my job; I stole the notes. But only after reviewing the case that my father's company had against the current owner, and realizing that it was too weak to win, even given my father's sterling reputation. And I had my co-worker, the forger, make a copy of the notes in my father's hand. Those I gave to the gentleman in dark glasses. The original I kept.

My parents would not have wanted me to die to avenge them. And I had no doubt that I'd end up dead, if I pursued their killers directly. And probably not just dead, but likely raped and tortured first. The since the previous patriarch of the family, an old-fashioned traditionalist who believed in killing cleanly, had recently passed away. His oldest son, the current leader of that old mafioso family, was a creep of an entirely different color.

So instead, I networked. I found other people with a grudge against the crime family whom my father had attempted to lawfully deprive of that object d'art, and I worked with them. We got the creep convicted of murdering a child (which he had). To pay for the defense of his good name, he sold the object d'art. After a suitable period of time, I stole it from the new owner (who blamed the creep). After another suitable period of time, I anonymously donated the object d'art in question to the national museum of the country which its long-ago maker had called home. It would have been bad publicity for the 'rightful' owner to reclaim it, and he never tried.

It wasn't perfect justice, but it's an imperfect world. And it was still enough to bring some heat on me. Enough that I decided to relocate to America. I ended up in Gotham, which in addition to famous criminals, contains a rather large elite with many lovely things that they don't particularly need, and cannot necessarily distinguish from a good fake. In order to further distance myself from my recent actions, I wore a Cat costume while I was out and about, relieving the rich of trinkets and conning the more vicious into not gouging me too badly on the fence. After all, I was quite young in those days. Not even yet eighteen years old, although my driver's license, with the brand-new last name of Kyle, said twenty-two.

The cat costume wasn't a random choice, but I didn't set out to become "the Catwoman." Rather, I felt at first that I needed a gimmick to differentiate Selina Kyle from the Selina who had caused so much trouble for the rotten scion of a fine old crime family in Europe. It ended up being a serendipitous choice, for a number of reasons. But I made it based on a simple fondness for cats, rather than to be a woman who emulated them.

I'd always been fond of cats; was then and still am. When my life has permitted me to have cats as companions, I've gone to the local animal shelter and picked two out. When I am in motion, whether fighting or dancing or even just walking, I've often thought of cats. Not tried to emulate them, exactly. I'm not sure that a human really can. But if it is possible to internalize that grace and economy of motion, than perhaps I've tried.

I figured if there were already so many costumed criminals running around Gotham, what was one more? To seem more like the real deal (and not at all like the woman who just took down a mob boss over the ocean), I only stole items with some connection to cats.

I'm not really sure that I knew what I was getting into. Certainly I did not plan to meet a gigantic, law-and-order obsessed Batman on a rooftop. Nor did I expect to fall in love with him. Nor to love him throughout all the vicissitudes of our lives. I didn't expect to come to care about his 'family,' or to play the role of stepmother to his brood of strays. I didn't expect to bear him a son, and lose that child too early, only to have him return and save my own life many years later.

But life is a string of unexpected occurrences. It's how we react to them that determines the course of our lives. And your life is not a single test that you pass or fail. You can fail many times, and still have the chance to get it right when it matters the most.

5


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Inherited Traits, Learned Behaviors, and Unexpected Gifts

Series: Inherited Traits  
Author: Susana  
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, etc., belong to DC or USA.

Chapter Summary: Neal is sick, and ends up spending an evening with his parents.

A/N: It seems that this story is roughly taking the format of a flashback chapter, and then a present-day chapter. This is a present-day chapter, from Neal's POV. As is probably clear, this is an AU of both White Collar and DC's Batman family. I'm using some events from DC canon (before the most recent reboot) and some from the White Collar TV series, but other things I've changed to meet what I wanted to do with the plot of this story. From what I know of the Batman comics (I'm far from an expert), for Batman continuity purposes, the present in this story is maybe three or four years after Batman returns in the Batman Incorporated storyline. Damian has worked with Bruce and with Dick, who have also both served as Batman for purposes of Gotham, Batman Incorporated, and the JLA.

Neal Caffrey is younger than he is in the White Collar TV series, he only went to jail for two years, and I'm using a slightly different backstory for how he became a con-man. For reference, Neal Caffrey is twenty years old in this story. Richard Grayson is about twenty-eight; Timothy Drake-Wayne is about twenty-three (and Cassie about the same age); Damian Wayne is about fourteen. Selina is forty, and Bruce is about forty-two.

**Quote:**

"There is sublime thieving in all giving. Someone gives us all he has and we are his." - Eric Hoffer

**Excerpt**

Excerpt from the end of chapter one of this story, Selina's statement that:

"[L]ife is a string of unexpected occurrences. It's how we react to them that determines the course of our lives. And your life is not a single test that you pass or fail. You can fail many times, and still have the chance to get it right when it matters the most."

**Chapter 2: An Evening At Home **

Neal rolled his eyes with a smile at Selina's philosophizing. "Moralistic monologues are more your boyfriend's style than yours, 'Lina." He mouthed to her, even though he knew that Selina wouldn't be able to hear him. An awful bout of the flu had put Neal flat on his back again, with his throat so raw that he couldn't even whisper. Worse, Neal's flu had become full-on pneumonia. Which had led Neal's alarmist physicians to recommend that the young man be on oxygen with a mask for the next twenty-four hours. Neal hated it. Not only was the mask itchy, it was quite the fashion faux-pas.

Selina frowned at him, half-sympathetic and half-chiding. "I don't read lips that well, Gato Feroz." She reminded him, tapping one perfectly manicured fingernail on a pad of paper on the bedside table.

Grimacing, Neal scribbled his comment onto a pad beside his bed, before handing the paper to Selina with a flourish, and leaning back against his pillows with an aggravated sigh. Neal was annoyed for a number of reasons. The first one that occurred to him just now, was that he was pretty sure that his mother could read lips just fine, but that was a mild irritation. Maybe Selina just wanted a few moments to regain her composure after telling Neal such a difficult story about her own parents. Neal had never known them, but he could tell that Selina had loved them dearly, and he respected that this was a difficult story for her to share, and respected and...maybe even loved her, for doing it.

But at the same time, communicating without a voice had been much easier BEFORE some well-meaning member of the family had taken his tablet PC. To have known that Neal was using said tablet for work against his physicians' orders, someone from Neal's work at the New York Branch of the FBI, White Collar Division, must have snitched. Probably it had been Peter, better known as Neal's former-keeper and current partner/boss, Supervisory Agent Peter Burke. And, knowing Peter, he'd probably contacted the family member whom Neal still found most intimidating. Bruce and Peter got along very well; Peter Burke was either blissfully unaware that Bruce was also the original Batman (unlikely, in Neal's opinion), or Peter thought Neal deserved him. Either way, Neal was out-of-temper with Peter, the FBI, whomever had taken his tablet and cellphone, the oxygen mask, and even the charming woman who had given birth to him before giving him up for adoption. Neal didn't blame Selina for that, but he was more than a little annoyed that she wouldn't let him take off the stupid oxygen mask.

Selina took the pad and read Neal's message with a wry smile, although whatever she would have said in response was cut off as a dark figure slid through Neal's window. Neal grinned as Selina got up to chase the younger of her two cats. Le Chevalier Noir, or "Chevy," for short, was a slender, short-haired, half-grown kitten with the softest black fur. Chevy was also very fond of Neal, and had taken his exile from the sick young man's room with disbelieving indignation. The last time he had found himself awake and alone, Neal had carefully gotten out of bed and opened the window a few inches, just so that Chevy could make an appearance.

Neal's motivations for doing so had included both practical logistics and entertainment value. Smirking, he took advantage of his mother's momentary distraction to pull the hated oxygen mask off.

"Mon petite Chevalier Noir, you know that you're not supposed to be in here." Selina scolded the little black cat affectionately, not even breaking in stride or changing her tone as she told Neal, "Gato Feroz, put the mask back on," before reminding Le Chevalier Noir, "Alfred and Minnette may think that you are sufficiently elegant to grace the house, but the doctors have banned you from Neal's room as an allergen factory, until he is breathing better."

"Mrrowww." Chevy protested, but he let Selina shoo him out of the door anyway. If it had been anyone else, the little black cat would have played keep away, with a pretense of innocent misunderstanding. But Selina had a way with cats.

And apparently also with her only biological son, as Neal did put his mask back on. "Itches." He mouthed in silent protest, trying to sit up a bit more. After getting up to open the window, Neal hadn't been able to get his pillow-nest to be quite as comfortable again. And he wasn't about to mention that to Selina. Her trying to make him more comfortable would just be odd and alarming for the twenty year old former felon and current FBI consultant. He was fond of his mother; really, he was. He'd been fond of her ever since he first met her. In those days, she'd given the teenaged Neal burglary tips and sent him work, all the while teasing him like an older sister. When the JLA had needed another thief to derail an invasion of Earth by a hostile alternate reality, Nightwing had been the one to recall Neal's name, but it had been Selina who had guided Neal through that job, and made sure that he got credit for it, with the FBI. Since Neal had first told Selina that he was her son almost two years ago, she'd been great. She didn't push him; she didn't expect anything from him (well, with a few exceptions, most of which Neal understood). Selina had even told Neal quite candidly that she just wanted to be a part of his life, and for the most part, she'd acted accordingly.

Confirming his earlier suspicion that she could read lips just fine when she wanted to, Selina nodded sympathetically, "I know it does." Selina didn't also say, 'Well, maybe you should have told the FBI or at least Agent Burke that you weren't yet twenty-five, before agreeing to help them track a smuggler who was suspected to be carrying a weaponized super-flu virus with a history of killing one out of five infected patients under the age of twenty-five,' which Neal appreciated. No one liked to hear 'I told you so,' and particularly not cats or con men, as Selina often said. Bruce's eldest son Richard, who moon-lighted as Nightwing when not overseeing Wayne Enterprise's Not-for-Profit Division, had been known to add "Detail-obsessed legendary vigilantes like hearing I 'told you so' even less, but they seem to need to hear it every so often. Maybe the same is true for cats and FORMER con-men."

"You should try to sleep again, Neal." Selina recommended firmly, stirring Neal from his thoughts.

"Not tired." He mouthed, adding beseechingly, "Juice?"

"Poor Gato Feroz," Selina said gently, obliging him with a cup of apple juice. "It is never fun to be sick."

Neal was in fact thirsty, but more than that, he had no intention of falling back asleep again before he heard from Peter. Neal's partner and the rest of his team were waiting for a break on a huge case, one that Neal had helped them to set up. And now, Neal wouldn't be there to see it through. He couldn't possibly rest until he knew how it went, and that no one had been hurt. Particularly as he wouldn't be there to help. Peter had recruited the pretty insurance agent, Sara Ellis, to help out with the analysis that Neal would normally do. Neal didn't think that Peter would let Sara join them on stake out or anything like that...but he was worried, all the same. About Sara, and Peter, and the others. Both Clinton Jones and Diana Barrigan were dear friends of Neal's, and he was on amicable terms with all of the younger agents who occasionally supported Peter's team. Neal knew very well that Peter had been doing his job for years before Neal came along, but most of Peter's people didn't know how to improvise when things went wrong, not the way Neal did. He'd been practicing since he was seven years old, after all.

So, Neal sipped his juice very, very slowly. Partly for his sore throat, but mostly because he was trying to keep himself awake.

Selina gave him a look of exasperated affection, but seemed willing to wait for nature, and the serious pain medication Neal was on, to take its course and send him back to dream-land. His mother, Neal reflected, was quite a practical woman. Like the felines for whom she had named her costumed persona after, Selina didn't waste effort when the prey would come to her, or when she thought that it was otherwise likely that matters would work out to her satisfaction without further interference on her part.

"Neal," Said a deep, quiet voice from the doorway, "Phone." Bruce tossed Neal a sleek cell phone. Neal's own, incidentally.

Neal caught it, sick but not so sick that his own cat-like reflexes had completely deserted him. Though he was sick enough that he hadn't noticed Selina's long-time boyfriend and Neal's biological father approaching them from the hallway. But then Bruce - or rather Batman, and sometimes Batman slipped into Bruce - was extremely good at stealthy entrances and exits. Better than Neal, which was one of a number of traits that Neal found off-putting about the man he'd learned a little over a year ago was his father.

"Peter?" Neal whispered very quietly into the phone, but fortunately Peter seemed to have heard him.

"Neal," Peter Burke's welcome voice came through the phone, "You'll be happy to hear that absolutely nothing has happened yet that you wouldn't have wanted to miss. We're still in the stake-out van, waiting for these guys to make their meet."

Neal swallowed, coughing a bit as he tried to speak loud enough to ask an important question.

Bruce took the phone from Neal with an antiseptic wipe, cleaning it and then pushing the speaker button. "Peter? It's Bruce." He said to the phone, before turning to Neal. "Don't try to speak up. Just say what you're going to say without voicing it, and I'll repeat it for Peter."

Neal had to make an unhappy face at that, but it did sound like a workable solution, maybe even the best solution. Selina sat down beside Neal on the bed, her hand coming to rest on his shoulder, ever so gently, in support.

"I'm worried that Smitz is having trouble actually managing the reproductions of the stolen manuscripts. If so, he may be getting desperate, and he may try to rabbit. If he's cornered..." Bruce repeated, word for word, for Neal, including Neal's proper inflections. Neal was impressed.

"If he's cornered, he may turn violent. And if he doesn't finish the reproductions, then he won't meet with the buyers, and we won't be able to get to the next level up of the operation." Peter finished, with a frustrated sigh.

Neal knew his partner well enough to know that Peter was considering his options, thinking of a way to save the operation without putting anyone's life unduly in danger. Neal knew what he'd normally do in this type of situation, and Neal thought that he still could do it, if he was on really good pain medicine and cough suppressants, so he offered.

Bruce sighed, but he duly repeated, "Put me in, Peter. I could finish the reproductions. Smitz knows that I'm good, and he doesn't know me to be associated with you." As he finished, Bruce raised a skeptical eyebrow at Neal, and bestowed a dubious glare on his second youngest son.

Neal fought not to squirm at being the target of that glare, but he didn't take his offer back. He still thought that it was the best solution.

Peter snorted, "I don't think so, kid. Not to mention that you're in Gotham right now, in the bosom of your loving family. You're sick as a dog, and even if I didn't have keeping you alive as one of main priorities, I wouldn't let you in on this op. You're too sick to keep it together. We'll figure it out, we've got a few handwriting experts in the division."

Unhappy, Neal sighed and threw himself back against the uncomfortably lumpy pile of pillows, before addressing the phone in Bruce's hand again. "Peter," Bruce repeated for Neal, "There's a burn phone for Mozzie taped under the middle evidence drawer in the surveillance van. Call him, and ask if he knows someone who would be able to do the reproductions, in exchange for immunity from persecution for that crime."

"Neal, leaving aside that I do not approve of your habit of leaving unsecured phones here and there," Peter replied chidingly, "Not all former criminals are like you. What if.."

Neal interrupted, shaking his head and mouthing emphatically as Bruce repeated, "We're talking art history professors, Peter. A lot of them make reproductions, for fun. It's the type of thing that forgers study, before they go and try for the real deal. There are at least two professors and four doctoral students who are better at this than Smitz. Mozzie will know who would be best. Tell him that my recommendation would be the post-grad with the really classy...ah, ability to draw."

Selina rolled her eyes, and pulled gently on a lock of Neal's hair, "The classy thing to do would probably to come up with less vulgar monikers for the ladies you come across in the course of your job and interests, mi Gatito Feroz."

Neal blushed, replying softly but sincerely, "Yes, Ma'am." Which Bruce repeated, with a little more amusement than Neal felt was strictly necessary.

"Right." Peter said, equally amused if not more so. "Neal, thanks for the input. We'll be fine. Now, relax, and try to feel better."

"I like lounging around, if you recall, Peter. Although it seems that I could do so just as easily in the stake-out van." Neal complained. Bruce's voice repeating his last words took on almost a whine. Neal glared a bit, at that. He had been complaining; not whining.

"I have a spam sandwich with your name on it, waiting for you to get cleared by your docs, Neal." Peter said fondly, but with a firm tone to his voice.

"Ugh, Spam." Neal complained, and Bruce again almost whined the words as he repeated them. Then an idea for a bit of revenge came to Neal, and with a small smile, he continued, "You make me want to hurl." Normally, Neal didn't utilize quite such undignified words, but he thought it would be a bit funny to see if Bruce repeated them verbatim.

Bruce did repeat the words, though he sighed exasperatedly as he did so.

Peter chuckled, and then reprimanded Neal lightly, "Behave, Neal. And Bruce?"

"Yes, Peter?" Bruce replied, his mild irritation dissolving into a tone of polite attentiveness.

"Keep an eye on Neal. He has a bad habit of finding crime scenes to wander around in when he's supposed to be in bed recovering." Peter related.

Bruce Wayne grunted lightly, his dark eyes intent on Neal. "I am aware of that. It seems to runs in the family," he remarked dryly, "Neal will be fine. Good luck with your stake-out." Bruce hung up the phone, and Neal relaxed against the uncomfortable pillows with a frown and a sigh.

The house was quieter than normal. Neal's room, with it's host of shiny medical equipment, emitted a low-level hum, but that was nothing compared to the normal chaos of the manor. Damian alone was loud when he wanted to be, and then some combination of Dick, Tim, and Stephanie were usually in and out of the house during any given day. But now, Dick, Tim, and Damian were all at the penthouse because no one was sure if Neal's flu was a relapse of the weaponized flu, and neither Damian nor Tim (or many of their friends, for that matter) were twenty-five yet. Dick had elected to stay with Tim and Damian, which Neal thought had probably relieved their parents. Even though Damian was getting along better with Tim, he thought that Bruce at least still deemed it prudent to have Dick there to referee. Neal hadn't been part of the family when Damian joined it and went through his most intensive jealousy and wanting-to-kill-his-adopted-brothers-phases, but Neal thought that if Damian had really wanted to kill Tim he would have done it earlier, and tried to make it untraceable. And Neal thought that Tim probably would've been able to handle himself, and maybe even made the whole experience so difficult for Damian, whether or not Damian was really trying, that Damian would give the whole idea up. Maybe that was even exactly what had happened. Neal reflected with some dark inner amusement that it was nice to be part of a family where everyone was so self-sufficient when it came to mayhem and attempted murder.

To Neal's relief, Bruce turned his attention to Selina. Frowning, he noted, "You're not dressed."

Selina gave her long-time boyfriend the look that Neal thought probably meant, 'When you make obvious statements like that, I wonder if you've been replaced by a brain-washed clone." Then she said, with strained patience, "I don't go out every night, Bruce. And I told you that I wasn't going out tonight. I'm planning to stay with Neal."

As a rule, Neal didn't like to rely on Bruce for help. But now, Neal gave Bruce a pleading look, because Neal thought that Selina really needed a break. Oh, on some level, Neal was touched that Selina wanted to stay. And maybe a little torn, because Neal found her presence comforting, but he liked being alone, too. And with Bruce and Selina out vigilante-ing, the house would be quiet enough for Neal to at least sneak to a computer somewhere and monitor how Peter and the others were doing.

Not giving any sign to acknowledge Neal's attempted non-verbal communication, Bruce appealed, "Selina. Please. I told Damian that one of us would take him to the opera."

Crossing her arms, Selina gave Bruce the same kind of look that Catwoman had once given Batman when he told her that already-stolen rubies were off-limits. "So, take him to the opera. He loves spending one-on-one time with you, even if music isn't your strong suit. Even better, he loves knowing more than you, about anything."

Bruce sighed, before appealing in a rare moment of weakness, "I can't go with Damian to this opera because I don't want to encourage him. It's Agrippina. You know, the heart-warming story of how a mother helps her son to kill his adoptive father, the Emperor Claudius, so that the son can take the father's place as Emperor?"

Neal watched on in fascination as Selina blinked at Bruce. Apparently deciding that he was serious, Selina replied more gently, "Oh, don't be ridiculous, Bruce. Damian just likes Handel, and he's preferential towards Handel's earlier Italian works. Agrippina is one of the most critically acclaimed of those, so of course he wants to see it while it's in town."

Neal started laughing silently, though it hurt.

Turning to her son with her hands still on her hips, Selina asked sarcastically, "Yes, dear?"

Neal grinned, before answering in less than a whisper, as he was now confident of both Bruce's and Selina's ability to read his lips just fine, "Damian and Dick might be doing this just to get your goat, Bruce. The tickets were a 'reward for being less of a trial to your tutors' present to Damian from Dick, with a two-pronged message. Nero doesn't do a good job of replacing Claudius, but not for any reason that I think might correspond to Damian besides not listening to good advice."

Selina's full lips quirked into an amused grin, "I hadn't realized. How very clever of Dick. Of course Damain has to go, to show that he isn't bothered by the gift. And really, the opera is ultimately an indictment of Agrippina. Damian might want to go because he's upset with Talia. Or as a way to watch a mother kill a hated male authority figure. Perhaps a symbolic way of killing Ra's al Ghul in effigy, for Damian."

Bruce crossed his arms and gave Selina a level look. Whether he was considering what she'd said, or just thinking that his entire family was crazy, Neal wasn't sure. He found it very hard to read Bruce most of the time, which annoyed him.

His mother didn't seem to have any such problem. With a huff, Selina continued, "Damian's therapist said that satiating his violent impulses vicariously through books and movies and the like is actually healthy behavior, for Damian, if you'll recall. You should encourage him."

Neal decided to put in his two cents, "You should go, Mom. Bruce will just sit there, silently disapproving. I don't think that he likes opera at the best of times, unless Tim's statistic about operas being twice as likely to be interrupted by a crime that Batman responds to is off-base."

Selina and Neal shared a moment of silent amusement, because Tim's statistics were rarely ever wrong. Tim was aggravatingly like Bruce, that way. Bruce just Looked at Selina, in dignified silence. It didn't seem to intimidate her, which made Neal respect his mother all the more. But he wanted her to enjoy herself, so he added,"You'll actually enjoy the show, and be able to talk about it intelligently with Damian. And maybe take him out for a chocolaty desert afterwards on the pretense that it's all your idea."

Selina's hardline stance in favor of Bruce taking Damian to the opera softened at the 'Mom.' Neal generally reserved the term for life-and-death situations, or when he REALLY wanted Selina to do something. Neal was quite sure that she knew she was being played, but for some reason of her own, she decided to go along with it. "Well, Damian does get tetchy if he doesn't get enough attention," Selina remarked, turning back to Bruce, "I'm sure that you boys will be fine without me. I'll go get dressed."

So Selina left, but Bruce didn't. Neal was pondering the oddity of that, when Selina returned to bid them farewell, dressed to the nines and trailing a faint, exotic perfume. It was a scent that whispered safety to Neal on a very instinctual level, and he wondered how young Selina had been, when she chose the scent and started wearing it. Wondered if maybe she had worn it in the nameless small town where she'd given birth to Neal, and then had given him up for his own good.

Bruce still didn't leave, like Neal had expected him to. Instead, he took Selina's chair, and Neal gave Bruce a curious look. Dick had been here the previous night, but Dick was chatty and friendly, as opposed to Bruce, who was generally quiet when he had the option (except when he was pointing out that he knew that look on your face meant that you were considering picking up something beautiful and priceless that didn't belong to you, and that you'd better not). Dick and Neal had always gotten on fairly well, ever since they'd first met in Bludhaven some six years ago. They'd both been tracking the same black-market antiques dealer. Dick, because the antiques dealer had been hiding drugs in bad fakes, and Neal, because some of the wares weren't fakes. It had been the first time that Neal had met Selina, who had shown up for much the same reason as Neal. They'd ended up working together because the antiques dealer had been partnered with someone much worse, who had been trying to poison the entire city by contaminating the water supply. Neal's list of aliases and alleged crimes didn't seem to faze Dick, but despite Bruce's tacit acceptance of Neal on a number of levels, Neal wasn't really sure that was true of his father.

Also, Bruce was broody, and Neal was one hundred percent sure that Bruce had some kind of contingency plan in place, just in case Neal turned back to a life of crime and decided to sell out all of their identities. Not that Neal would ever do the latter, and for a number of reasons, he was also pretty committed to staying on the right side of the law, at least officially speaking. Many of those reasons had as much to do with Peter as with Selina, and little at all to do with Bruce. Neal had never responded well to being threatened, and Bruce's...well, at least Batman's, attitude towards Neal had for a long time been one of, 'Mess up again, Caffrey, and we'll put you back in prison where you belong.' Bruce, on the contrary, had seemed honestly grateful for Neal's having given Selina part of his kidney to save her life. In general, Bruce Wayne seemed rather absently fond of his girlfriend's ostensible cousin, even if Neal was a felon.

Some time later, but still before anyone but Selina and Neal were even aware that Bruce was Neal's father, even Batman had seemed to become, not proud...but at least less disapproving of Neal. That had happened sometime early last year, when the truth of Neal's later childhood and early teenage years had come out. Neal himself had just mostly wanted to forget escaping from Eastern Europe and helping his then-adoptive mother, Martina Prazak, to foil a large-scale sale of nuclear weapons. Selina had known about some of it, and Neal thought that Tim probably had, too, since Tim and Neal had met when Neal was back in Eastern Europe, fulfilling a promise to Martina, and Tim was secretly destroying the League of Assassins from within, and looking for the missing Bruce. But most of Neal's early past had been a surprise to Peter, and Selina had told Neal that some of it had come as a surprise to Bruce and Dick, too.

After that, Batman had seemed...at least on somewhat neutral terms with Neal the FBI consultant, and grudgingly accepting of Gray Cat, Catwoman's sometimes-assistant on large-scale operations requiring more than one individual with the skill-set of a consummate thief/con artist. And certainly, Bruce had taken Selina's revelation that Neal was her son, and also Bruce's son, with apparent equanimity. No public announcement had been made, but Neal hadn't wanted one. He didn't join the 'family business,' so to speak, but he did consult with Bat family members even more often, on cases that involved some aspect of Neal's expertise, particularly if Selina was unavailable. A bedroom had been made available for Neal in Bruce's ancestral mansion, but Neal had only rarely stayed there. For instance, when visiting Selina at her invitation, or when Neal had been in town for Dick's wedding.

But when it came to having Neal in his house because Neal had gotten really sick again, or even when it came to having accidentally fathered Neal some twenty-plus years ago...Neal wasn't sure if Bruce was pleased by any of that. It did not make for a restful silence, at least not for Neal. Two years ago, if Neal had gotten sick, Peter would have made sure that he got to a doctor. June would have brought him chicken soup, and Mozzie probably would have kept him company, but only once he was sure that Neal wasn't contagious. This time, Peter had made one phone call. A Wayne Enterprises plane had been detoured to take Neal to Gotham, and world-renowned experts on respiratory illness had been called in to look at Neal. And now, Bruce...Batman, was keeping Neal company. It was more than just uncomfortable. It was surreal.

Bruce seemed to sense some of that, as he asked, rather gently for him, "What is it, Neal?"

Neal decided to just answer semi-honestly, like he would if Peter had asked him. "Ah. You seem angry with me, Bruce. It makes this whole sitaution a little...uncomfortable."

Bruce sighed, "I'm not angry with you, son." After an uncomfortable pause, Bruce inquired, "Why would you think that I am?"

Neal didn't want to answer, but Bruce, even without the costume, wasn't a man whom one easily declined to answer. After just a moment, Neal supplied, "Damian...may have mentioned it, over the phone." Plus, Bruce was so quiet, and Neal couldn't tell if it was fury or worry or boredom...or what. But Damian had also theorized that Bruce would be angry, so it wasn't a lie. Just a half-truth. And Bruce had to at least be accustomed to those, from Selina."

Bruce regarded Neal steadily, as if reading more into the answer than Neal had actually said. At length he replied, "Damian was on patrol with Dick last night. Dick is an inveterate eavesdropper. What did Dick say?"

Neal blinked, "That you weren't angry. That you were worried." Dick had also said that because Bruce was as emotionally stunted as a new-age Disney Pixar villain, his worry could easily be mistaken for anger. Neal didn't say that last part.

Although it seemed that Bruce might have heard it, anyway, from the flash of amused irritation in his eyes. "Mmm. And Tim?"

Neal winced, and sighed. "Tim said that once I'm well enough, you're going to have some medical expert visit with me. Specifically, to give me a lecture on the interaction between reduced kidney function, the weaponized flu virus, their varying after effects, and the implications of all of that for my contracting even run-of-the-mill viruses. Then, that you're going to somehow make me a test on it, which I will pass, or you will find some non-lethal way to make me wish that I was dead."

Bruce's lips twitched into a half smile. "Dick knows me fairly well. Tim is, statistically, the best at predicting what I'm going to do. And Damian, when ill or injured, habitually resists coddling with force until I meet his temper with mine. You're more likely to take Selina's path."

Neal, intrigued despite himself, had to ask, "Which is?"

With a thoughtful look at Neal, Bruce replied, " She obscures the essential behind a barrage of charming and appealing diversions. Now, let's see if we can't make you more comfortable."

With that, Bruce proceeded to lift Neal from the bed to the chair, rearrange all of the pillows, and put Neal back on the bed, with a gentle squeeze to Neal's shoulder. Which was all odd, and bore further thought, but comfortable again, Neal was too tired to ponder it. He fell asleep, only to wake up sometime later to the rustling of newspaper, Bruce murmuring something, and Bruce's butler Alfred bringing Neal medicine, and more juice. Then Neal lost consciousness again. He woke up with Bruce's hand on his shoulder in the quiet darkness, to Bruce's quiet murmur of, "Peter again. He sounds fine." Despite that, Neal noted that Bruce kept a gentle hand on his shoulder, as Neal took the phone.

"Peter?" Neal whispered.

Peter reported with the cheer that indicated a post-successful-bust-high, "Everything's fine, kid. Went down without a hitch." In the background, Neal heard Clinton Jones comment, "Diana says that were right, Neal. Ms. Kathleen Malloy the post-graduate really does have a classy...'ability to draw.'"

Neal had to smile at that, and at the sheer joy and relief in Peter's voice. "Glad to hear it," Neal managed to croak.

"You sound awful, Neal. Get some more rest. I've got to go deal with processing this lot." Peter said with a mixture of concern for Neal and zeal for his next task.

"Smitz may make a deal." Neal added hoarsely, "Remind him that he's not the one you really want. He didn't kill anybody, yet, that we know of, for instance."

"Neal," Peter replied with affectionate exasperation, "I'm actually pretty good at my job. I did manage to catch you, twice, after all."

Before Neal could reply, Bruce gently took the phone away from him, "Neal should rest, Peter. But he undoubtedly wants you to know that the second time didn't count, in his opinion."

Since that was what he had wanted to say, Neal just nodded. When Peter was off the phone, Neal sighed. He was relieved, but he was also disappointed, which seemed foolish to him. And Neal Caffrey hated to behave foolishly.

Bruce left for a few minutes, then came back, with a strawberry milkshake for Neal.

Surprised, Neal managed a quiet, "Thanks. How did you know that I wanted one?," before turning his attention to the cool, sweet-tasting treat.

"Selina mentioned that you're partial to them," Bruce replied, "And it's a good source of nutrition for patients with pneumonia."

Neal nodded, thinking as he drank that the clinical, logical way Bruce presented his reasons for doing Neal favors always made them seem...less important, somehow. It was almost self-deprecating, which, in Neal's experience, was almost always a defense mechanism. He wondered why...but then Bruce started talking again.

"Agent Burke said that you've done good work on this case, Neal." Bruce related quietly, " You should feel proud of that, even if you couldn't be there at the end."

Neal just nodded again, although his eyes couldn't hide his pleased surprise. Neal also reflected that Dick was right, it did seem hard for Bruce to praise, and it did seem bizarre, when he did so.

Bruce settled himself more comfortably in his chair, "You should go back to sleep, Neal," he recommended, in the tone of voice that made it clear that sleep was more of a command than a suggestion.

Shaking his head, Neal tried to explain, "Can't, just yet. Really. I'm not trying to stay awake...it's just adrenaline, or something. I was really worried about them, and even now that I know that everything's fine, I can't...I can't calm down and fall back asleep. I don't know, maybe it's the pain meds."

Nodding, the commanding glint in Bruce's eyes softened. "It may well be. But it is...understandable, even if not."

Then there was a pause, but it was a less uncomfortable silence, as Neal remembered something else that Dick had told them, when they'd been cleaning up the mess from Dick and Barbara's disastrous rehearsal dinner. Dick had explained that Bruce expresses love through actions, and that put Bruce's making Neal more comfortable, getting him a milkshake, putting a gentle hand on Neal's shoulder when another call came through from Peter, in a rather different light. It even put Bruce's taking Neal's phone in the first place, but making sure that Neal got Peter's calls, in a different light. After all of that, if Bruce wanted to sit in the quiet darkness with him and not say anything, Neal figured that he could handle it without being too uncomfortable.

Then Bruce spoke up, surprising Neal again. "I know that Selina was reading to you. Alfred is at the penthouse with the boys, but if I turn the lights on to read we'll have Minette waking up to chide us."

"Selina wasn't reading," Neal explained, his surprise or maybe the pain medication, or perhaps his most recent revelation, leading him to be more honest, "She was telling me a story, about her parents. And about what she did, to, er, honor them."

Bruce was quiet for another moment after that, but the kind of quiet that somehow encouraged Neal to go on because he was being listened to, rather than because he was being intimidated. So Neal elaborated, "She told me about becoming Catwoman. About how it was an accident, how it was just to disappear, for protection and camouflage. Like Gray Cat, for me, or like..."

"Like a hero's identity." Bruce finished for Neal.

Neal sighed, his discomfort suddenly back full-force, "I'm not a hero, Bruce. I just got caught in a situation where helping the side of law-and-order was preferable to going to jail." Neal had meant that to sound light, or at least confident and charming, but it came out broken, and rather raw. Well, as much as a whisper could.

Through the darkness, Neal could just barely make out Bruce's lips quirking into a small smile, as if he saw some humor in the situation that escaped Neal. "Once upon a time," Bruce began, "I was the night, and Selina was the moon."

His jaw dropping, Neal sputtered, "You're kidding. You're ...you're actually going to sit here when you could be doing something else, and tell me a story? About your own secret life?"

"Do you want to hear about the first time I met your mother, or not?" Bruce retorted lightly, as if still quietly amused by some private joke.

Being a good enough thief to know not to protest when someone was giving him something valuable for free, Neal replied meekly, "Yes. Please."

Bruce leaned forward in his chair, and the moon through the windows lit his face as he said, "It began on a brisk autumn night, some 23 years ago..."

(End note: Please review if you liked this – it's a much more complicated crossover than I've ever attempted before, and outside of my normal comfort zone, so encouragement would be particularly welcome. Constructive criticism, of course, too. Thank you!)

13


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Inherited Traits, Learned Behaviors, and Unexpected Gifts

Series: Inherited Traits  
Author: Susana  
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, etc., belong to DC or USA.

Chapter Summary: The story of the first time Batman met Catwoman, as told by Bruce Wayne to Neal Caffrey.

**Quotes:**

_"I am the Batman. This is my city. At night it belongs to me."_ - Bruce Wayne, in Legends of the Dark Knight, Vol. 1 39 (writer Bryan Talbot)

"In the eyes of a cat, all things belong to cats." - Anonymous

"We humans are full of unpredictable emotions that logic cannot solve." - Star Trek

**Chapter 3: An Impermissible Distraction **

The mugger who shot Thomas and Martha Wayne also ended the life of young Bruce Wayne, at least the only life that Bruce had ever known. His parents had defined his young existence. Despite his father's career and his mother's charities, they had been very involved, loving parents. Without them, Bruce was truly lost.

Bruce wasn't sure how he could have possibly survived that first year of heart-piercing grief, if it hadn't been for Alfred. It was Alfred Pennyworth who, with occasional assistance from Leslie's assistance, who had tricked, begged, and cajoled the young Bruce into living again. But still, life would never be the same. Already a solitary child, Bruce had become even more isolated, not wanting to spend time with other children or even other people. Bruce's parents, while proud of their son's studious endeavors and understanding of his quiet nature, had still insisted that Bruce accompany them to various events, and play with other children his age. Without them, Bruce didn't have any interest in spending time with other people, and he didn't see why he should have to.

Alfred alone could not be mother and father to Bruce, even if he'd been willing to try. Alfred had been relatively young when Bruce was orphaned, not even two decades Bruce's elder. Alfred had both respected and loved the Waynes, and he loved their son, as well. But Alfred had no training in being a parent, and was nearly crippled at times in helping Bruce, because he simply did not know what to do. In later years, Alfred would tell Bruce that he had erred unforgivably in his role as Bruce's guardian, by letting Bruce pursue his own course without sufficient guidance, by not trying harder to help Bruce work through his grief. For Bruce's part, he didn't blame Alfred. Alfred had tried his best to give Bruce everything that Bruce needed. And child Bruce, being precocious and alternatively grief-stricken and angry, had needed more than just a loving guardian. He had needed a cause. And Alfred, intentionally or not, had led Bruce to find one.

It had been a rainy night, not too long after Bruce's parents had died, but long enough after that the first numbing, gut-wrenching grief had been replaced with anger. Bruce had excelled at his studies, and Alfred had offered to take Bruce sailing as a reward. Sailing had been an activity which Bruce had previously enjoyed with his father...one of Thomas Wayne's favorite hobbies. Without his father, it just seemed pointless. Although adult-Bruce couldn't justify child-Bruce's throwing an entire table worth of dishes at a wall.

Alfred hadn't been best pleased by that, either. But he had dealt with the troubled boy before the broken china. And it had been there, on the dining room floor surrounded by the wreckage of beef wellington and creamed spinach, that the first kernel of the idea that would become the Mission first came to Bruce.

"What's the point!" Bruce had yelled, "What's the point of any of this...doing well at anything, going sailing...anything! Anything, when...when...they're GONE!" Then Bruce had burst into noisy sobs.

Putting his arms around his young charge, Alfred had soothed, "Of course it is good that you are alive, Master Bruce. Of course there is a purpose to it all."

"There isn't." Bruce countered, hiccuping and in tears, but still deadly serious.

Alfred's arms just tightened around Bruce as he denied, "You are a very intelligent, caring young man. I have every confidence that you will find a way to give back to this world, to make your parents proud of you even though they are no longer here with us."

That was something that Bruce clearly hadn't thought of yet. The idea gripped him with the fervor of a conversion. "You're right." He murmured softly to Alfred, his expression now focused rather than troubled, as he continued, "I can make sure that no other child EVER has to lose his parents, let alone watch while they are killed before him."

"Ah...that wasn't exactly what I meant, Master Bruce." Alfred murmured, blinking his eyes in astonishment. Gently, he added, "It seems entirely too much for one child - one man- to accomplish."

Bruce squared his shoulders, looking so much like his father about to attempt a difficult surgery that it made Alfred catch his breath.

"Then I'd better get started." Bruce said determinedly, getting to his feet. "Instead of sailing, Alfred, can I get a hand-to-hand combat instructor?"

Sighing, Alfred agreed, "Of course we might, young sir, if that is what you wish. Perhaps after we have rescued what we might of the china?"

With a blush for his temper, Bruce agreed, "Of course."

What had followed was years and years of training, mind and body and spirit. Years during which Bruce had done his best to hone his body into a perfect weapon, his mind into an unrivaled instrument of analysis, his soul into one of steel. Years during which Bruce's goal was to become the perfect crime-fighter, and Alfred's goal was to keep Bruce alive, sane, and as happy as possible. In retrospect, Bruce's task had probably been the easier of the two.

Alfred had told Bruce on a number of occasions, as Bruce nursed an injury from his exertions in some foreign land, that Alfred had deeply regretted his word choice that long-ago day. He'd meant to encourage Bruce to be a good student and, eventually, a good businessman or perhaps a good doctor, like Thomas Wayne had been. Bruce had always known that, by 'find a way to give back to the world, to make your parents proud,' that Alfred hadn't meant Bruce's crusade. Alfred had always made it clear that, although Alfred was proud of Bruce, he loathed the crusade. But Alfred loved Bruce like a son, so he stayed. There were times when he'd had to leave...when he hadn't been able to stand watching his beloved ward torture himself...but he'd always been there for Bruce, when Bruce needed him.

And, when the Batman first appeared in Gotham city, it had been Alfred alone who knew Bruce Wayne's secret. Alfred who guarded, patched up, and cared for his young Master, even while quietly mourning that Bruce Wayne was more and more only a mask. And Alfred, who would just as silently cheer, when Selina Kyle, the Catwoman, first caused Bruce to realize that he was more than just the Batman.

In the early days, Batman was a ghost. A rumor of a bogeyman; the criminals feared him as they feared the unknown in the night. The cops at first didn't give credence to his existence, and when they finally realized there might be something to the tales of a batman that preyed upon the city's worst...they tried to find him, to stop him. Then Batman proved an ally to some of the best in the Gotham City Police Department, and they aided and abetted Batman. Or at least ignored him. And besides, there were enough problems in Gotham that a vigilante who tried not to kill and often aided the police in solving serious crimes was not someone high on officialdom's list of problems.

For the crimefighter himself, Batman was far more important than Bruce Wayne. In fact, to Batman, the atrophy of Bruce Wayne had begun at an early age. Without his parents alive, what Bruce Wayne did mostly didn't matter, other than that it must always be clear that Bruce Wayne was not, and could not be, the Batman. Oh, Bruce Wayne was reliable enough when he had to be about showing up for Wayne Enterprises Board of Directors meetings, and about his other responsibilities having to do with the company. Not only did the livelihoods of many other people and the economy of Gotham City rely upon that, but so did his crusade. Without Bruce Wayne's money, Batman would not have the best toys.

And Batman needed them. He was the first so-called 'Superhero' since the Great War to take on such an ambitious role without super powers to back him up. Batman needed fear, and Batman needed a technological edge. And Bruce was never one to rely on luck, or being faster or stronger than the other guy to win a fight for him. Such might be the only strategy of other vigilante heroes, such as Superman and the Flash, but to Bruce's way of thinking, it was ridiculous.

The Batman had been about his work in earnest for a little more than a year when he first met...HER. She distracted him, made him forget that Bruce Wayne and Batman were two different entities. Made him want a life beyond protecting the city, putting the scum away. Made him forget that the Quest was deadly serious, that it could never be fun. Which was unacceptable. Because when he was Batman, Bruce Wayne did not exist. Batman was the night. He was Justice...and he was, on that first night he met her...completely mesmerized by this woman's...this CRIMINAL's... long, curvy legs.

She was neither tall nor short, but her height wasn't the first thing he noticed about her. It was her body...she was muscular, but still curvy in all the places a woman should be. Just looking at her somehow brought to Bruce's mind the glamorous leading ladies of the golden-era films he had watched as a child with his mother Martha, because they had been her favorites. The body in the form-fitting purple cat suit could have been Betty Grable's, but the lady cat carried herself with the confidence of Katharine Hepburn. The kind of confidence that was as much self-knowledge as flirtation. Bruce knew...he just knew, that she'd walk so alluringly even if no one was watching her at all. She wasn't beautiful for others; she was lovely for herself. Then she turned to face Bruce, and it was like lightning impacting his chest, shocking him into complete silence. He stared like a school boy, into eyes as soulful as Betty Grable's. They were the bluest eyes Bruce had ever seen, with just a hint of lavender. Dark, dark hair escaped from her purple cowl, framing what Bruce could see of her pale face like the dark hair of the Virgin Mary in a Renaissance masterpiece.

He knew that he must have surprised her, too. He'd tailed her for almost an hour, since he first saw her exiting from the Gotham Museum of Classical Arts. Now, exiting the balcony of socialite Bunny Harrison's penthouse, she had an artist's bag slung over one shoulder and a smaller bag held very, very carefully in one hand. But like the feline who had inspired her costume, she reacted as if she'd purposely intended to meet the haunt of Gotham City's criminals.

"Why, hello, Handsome." The cat woman purred, "My horoscope told me that I was going to meet someone tall, dark, and good-lucking tonight, under the stars, but that particular section of the paper has let me down so many times...I didn't have the heart to hope again."

Bruce only just remembered to use Batman's gravelly voice, as he replied, nearly stuttering, "I'm...here to stop you."

The vision in purple laughed delightedly, and the sound was so...real. Throaty and warm and touchable, it sounded like it should be fattening. Like fine chocolate, or finely aged liquer. "Stop me...from what?" She asked,with a charming grin.

"Breaking and entering. And theft of..." Trouble was, Bruce hadn't seen her actually steal anything. He'd had to take a brief detour from tailing the cat-like cat burglar in order to stop a mugger from killing a waitress. But the evidence was all there. So he generically growled, "property that doesn't belong to you."

The cat woman laughed again, "I wasn't breaking and entering. Bunny's screen door was wide open. I didn't take anything from her penthouse."

Bruce raised an incredulous eyebrow, and thought about quoting Arthur Conan Doyle. Batman crossed his arms, and harshly accused, "You're here, in that, in the middle of the night...don't even try to tell me that you weren't up to anything illegal."

The gorgeous cat burglar gave him a naughty wink, and drawled, "Well, darlin', you're here in that get-up in the middle of the night. I'll bet you've gone into some private residences, too. Why don't we go back to my place, and we can take turns spanking each other for unauthorized trespassing?"

Bruce's reminiscing broke of abruptly, as Neal leaned forward, gagging for breath, caught in the grip of a coughing fit.

"Lean forward more, Neal." Bruce instructed, as he moved to both hold Neal up in a sitting position, and pat Neal's back firmly. Alfred was suddenly there, as well, putting a towel over Neal's lap just as he begun coughing up grey phlegm. No one reacted as if it were nauseatingly gross, well, no one except Neal. "So...sorry," He gasped, in between coughs.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, Master Neal. It is simply a part of the process of healing from a severe case of pneumonia." Alfred assured the youth, cleaning up the towel when Neal was at last done coughing, and in fact finally feeling a bit better.

"Drink these," Bruce ordered, handing Neal a cup of chamomile tea and a glass of apple juice that Alfred had brought. "Apple juice first, and then the tea. It will help your throat."

Neal drank, since not obeying didn't seem wise. The chamomile tea was actually the vanilla kind that Neal preferred, and it did soothe his throat, particularly after the cold apple juice.

"Good," Bruce praised, now rubbing Neal's back gently.

"I should be in the hospital," Neal managed to croak after drinking, "And the last time I got hurt you were yelling at me so loudly that you scared the bats. Now...you're giving me tea, and juice, and playing nurse?"

Bruce grunted, Neal supposed in objection. Neal couldn't read Bruce's grunts as fluently as Dick, Tim, or Damian, or even as capably as Selina. Bruce must have figured that out, as he decided to elaborate.

"The last time you managed to get injured is a topic which is off-limits today." Bruce said firmly, squeezing Neal's shoulder gently before resuming his seat opposite the younger man. "This time, you were more sick than you realized that you were. Not smart, and it has worried us. But its the same type of just post-adolescent thinking-you're-an-immortal idiocy I had to deal with, first with Dick and then with Tim. Between the two of them alone, Alfred, Minnette, Selina, and I have nursed my hard-headed off-spring through pneumonia no less than a half dozen times."

"Oh. That must have been pretty miserable, for all involved." Neal sympathized, not even able to imagine the hyper-active Dick forced to stay in bed and recover, let alone Tim, who once he had started working with a problem literally had to be dragged away from his computer kicking and screaming.

Bruce snorted genteelly, "A clever deduction."

"Not really." Neal disagreed, "It was pretty easy to figure out that this," Neal gestured around to his sick room, meaning all of the misery of nursing someone who wasn't generally appreciative of your efforts, "is pretty miserable."

Bruce nodded, but he added quietly that, "The only thing worse, as a parent, is not being able to be here."

Taken aback by the sentiment present in that quiet statement, the intimation again that Bruce viewed Neal as his child, Neal gaped for a moment. And then, drawing up his courage and his personal rule for thanking people for doing something nice for him, Neal defied his friend Mozzie's description of Neal as someone who only rarely thanked, and even then sarcastically.

"Thanks, Bruce." Neal offered sincerely, "For having Dick and Tim pick me up, and fly me here. For making it so that I could stay here instead of at the hospital, and for...for taking care of me. I really appreciate it. I hate hospitals." The idea of Bruce as his father was still weird to Neal, but for anyone who'd gone to this much effort to take care of Neal and make him comfortable, Neal would offer a sincere thanks. It was like Selina had said months ago...it might be too late for them to have a conventional father/son relationship, but it wasn't too late for them to be kind to one another, get to know one another a bit, and maybe become friends. Which was, until quite recently, the extent and depth of Neal's relationship to Selina.

"You are always welcome here." Bruce replied, and his tone was huskier than Bruce Wayne's usual hale-fellow-well-met voice. It was also far from Batman's growl, although the way that Bruce said, 'welcome,' it was a bit stronger, a hint of Batman's 'stay where you belong.' Neal had no intention of staying at Wayne Manor after he was well enough to return to work with the FBI's White Collar Crime Unit in New York City, but it was nice, if still somewhat surreal, to have some place to call home. Well, the family home, where the family seemed to claim him with cheerful and sometimes overwhelming ferocity.

"Thank you." Neal said, gratitude in his voice, although his blue eyes showed that he was in danger of feeling overwhelmed.

Bruce, who had known Selilna in her younger years, knew that it was time to change the subject, "Shall I continue with my story, or are you ready to sleep, as your doctors would prefer?"

"Ah...story, please." Neal replied, settling back against his pillows, and feeling better than he had in days. Greatly daring, he added, "But if you could avoid the more graphic parts of the story...considering that I know my existence dates from sometime the first year that you knew Mom...that would be...classy."

Bruce chuckled, a mix of sympathy and mischief coming across in the sound. "I'll try, Neal. But it's hard to talk about your Mom without mentioning that she personified sex appeal."

"Do...cough..try." Neal pleaded.

"I will." With that, Bruce disappeared back into his vivid memories of the first night he'd met Selina, who would later become known as the Catwoman.

Bruce was rather intrigued by the Catwoman's explanation, even though he wasn't fooled by her clever answer about Bunny's apartment. She also been in a museum...with far many interesting objects to steal. However, Batman growled, "You're a criminal. I stop you, I don't sleep with you."

"Well, in that case Handsome, I guess we'll have to call this an unsuccessful first date." Gracefully, the catwoman then tossed Batman the small bag that she had handled oh so carefully. Bruce instinctively reached out to grab it, as Catwoman jumped lithely off the roof of the museum. In one motion, she swung her whip around a gargoyle, and used that to pull herself over an almost vertical building, from which she disappeared over the roof and into the garden beyond.

Batman growled, torn between the instinct to pursue and the instinct to get whatever she'd tossed him back to its proper owners, safe and sound. Upon inspecting his bounty more carefully, Bruce realized that it was...soup. The excellent soup that the diner down the street served, even this late at night." With a silent, condemning laugh at himself, Bruce realized that (A) she'd only said she hadn't stolen from Bunny's house; and (B) she was a criminal, what was he THINKING, letting her go just because she'd tossed him a bag?

Then Batman dropped down to the streets, handed the soup off to a homeless man who sometimes acted as one of his informants, and began his pursuit of the beautiful criminal and the contents of her art bag. But before he got far, he was distracted by a robbery in progress at a convenience store. By the time that was over, the sun was beginning to glint in the horizon, and Batman's time was over until the next evening.

Upon arriving home, Batman advised Alfred in a tone of utmost self-loathing, "I failed in my quest, tonight."

Alfred nobly refrained from rolling his eyes as he handed Bruce pajamas and a warm flannel robe. "I doubt that, Master Bruce." Alfred replied, in a soothing, supportive tone of voice, "You might have been unsatisfied with your performance, but that is often the case when more objectivley viewed, your actions or lack thereof were merely human, and not, as you have a penchant for perceiving them, 'a failure.'" In a deadpan voice showing just a hint of disapproval, Alfred continued, "Besides, tomorrow is another night when you may try even harder to get yourself killed."

Bruce just grunted at that. It was a common complaint on Alfred's part, before complaining of himself, "I was so distracted by an alluring form that I failed to see the duplicitousness of a criminal mastermind."

Sighing, Alfred resignedly inquired, "And what nefaroius plot was this mastermind up to?"

"She...she flirted with me." Bruce reported, as if he couldn't quite believe it himself.

"How very dire, sir." Alfred replied drolly.

Bruce gave his former guardian a frustrated look, before clarifying snappishly, "No, Alfred, to distract me. And it worked. I let her get away with a statuette of the Egyptian Cat Goddess Bast, the one that the Harrison family donated to the Gotham Museum of Classical Arts a decade ago."

"And Bunny Harrison's grandfather stole that fair-and-square from the ruins of the Temple of Bast in Egypt during the Great War. My heart bleeds for poor Bunny, who has been heard to describe that statue as "that ugly old thing Grandpa Harrison won't let me give away to charity."

Bruce gave his mentor an odd look.

Alfred sighed in away that Bruce couldn't read, before explaining carefully, "An...old friend of mine, was quite the proponent of the cultural patrimony of places such as Egypt, India, and the Middle East being returned to its home countries."

Bruce swallowed the lump which had suddenly appeared in his throat, and concluded in a pained tone, "My mother."

Softly, with infinite affection, Alfred confirmed, "'Yes, Master Bruce. Hence the Wayne Foundation's investments in the museum facilities of those nations, and in certain of their legal funds."

Bruce took a deep breath, and stated firmly, "That still doesn't make stealing it right."

Alfred raised an eyebrow, "No, of course it doesn't, young master, and I don't condone theft. Two wrongs do not make a right. But permit me to say that I do hope you will stay busy with this young lady thief rather than the general run of murderers and vermin. I feel that she is much more likely to toy with your emotions rather than your health."

Bruce grunted again, before promising fiercely, "I won't let her get away with this. Not in my city."

(End note: Please review if you liked this – it's a much more complicated crossover than I've ever attempted before, and outside of my normal comfort zone, so encouragement would be particularly welcome. Constructive criticism, of course, too. Thank you!)

9


	4. Chapter 4

Title: Inherited Traits, Learned Behaviors, and Unexpected Gifts

Series: Inherited Traits  
Author: Susana  
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, etc., belong to DC or USA.

Chapter Summary: Neal interrupts Bruce's story with an observation, which leads to a brief discussion over Neal's past and future.

A/N: Another Bruce -POV flashback chapter coming up (with some Bruce and Neal back-and-forth as Neal will receive phone calls on phones he isn't supposed to have in his sick room, from Mozzie and Cassandra). That chapter was intended to be this chapter, and I hadn't planned on getting into so much of Neal's background until later, even in his own silent ruminations. But sometimes when you write, the chapter does not turn out as you intend.

**Quote:**

"Don't hold your parents up to contempt. After all, you are their son, and it is just possible that you may take after them." - Evelyn Waugh

"In every dispute between parent and child, both cannot be right, but they may be, and usually are, both wrong. It is this situation which gives family life its peculiar hysterical charm." - Isaac Rosenfeld

**Excerpt: Last lines of previous chapter:**

"Bruce took a deep breath, and stated firmly, "That still doesn't make stealing it right."

Alfred raised an eyebrow, "No, of course it doesn't, young master, and I don't condone theft. Two wrongs do not make a right. But permit me to say that I do hope you will stay busy with this young lady thief rather than the general run of murderers and vermin. I feel that she is much more likely to toy with your emotions rather than your health."

Bruce grunted again, before promising fiercely, "I won't let her get away with this. Not in my city.'"

**Chapter 4: An Interruption and a Discussion of Pasts and Presents**

"But of course," Bruce continued with a wry smile "She did get away with it. That time, and every other time." There was an...odd expression, flickering in Bruce's dark blue eyes. Regret, almost, or self-reproach. Neal supposed that if you were a vigilante who detested crime, and you loved a woman who had made her reputation on being able to burgle the previously-presumed-to-be-unstealable, then you might have some contradictory feelings about never having captured her. Even if she had voluntarily returned to him, and made a life with him, practically adopting his children as her own.

After a moment, Bruce's eyes cleared, and he explained, "Oh, Selina didn't always get away with the object of her scheme, but she always got away free...she was the only criminal I never managed to keep ahold of, even when I did catch her."

"Selina is a legend." Neal agreed in a hoarse whisper. Neal made an effort not to sound too approving of his mother's former career as a thief, although he couldn't keep all of his admiration out of his voice. Neal's own personal moral compass still revolved more around not-hurting-people than obeying all the pesky laws. Given that perspective, Neal was very proud of a lot of his mother's former alleged-work, even in her earlier days when most of it hadn't been legal.

Bruce's eyes narrowed, and he folded his arms, "You," he said to Neal sternly, in a tone that was almost-but-not-quite edging into Batman's 'do-as-I-say-or-else' gravelly growl, "Are done with earning that type of fame. As is your mother."

Although quailing on the inside, Neal stayed faithful to his personal philosophy of not agreeing with anything Peter (or Bruce) said regarding Neal's former alleged criminal activities, partly for reaction value and partly because Neal was annoyed with himself for how much he cared what they thought of him. So instead Neal smiled, his most evasive and charming smile, the one with hard edges, and said, "Given how frequently the FBI and the JLA need Selina and I to con some bad guy or other, one would think that you would take a more encouraging stance towards our keeping our skills sharp..."

Bruce gave Neal a look, and Neal actually squirmed. He couldn't help it. Bruce's expression was half batman, half...something stern and disappointed yet at the same time caring, as if he thought Neal was capable of better, and expected it of him. Neal didn't have a lot of defenses to that kind of attention. For that matter, Neal didn't understand why he cared what Bruce thought of him, anyway, beyond Bruce (and Batman) not being given immediate reason to turn Neal into the authorities for something it could be proven that Neal had done.

Neal didn't understand why it was that he wanted Bruce to think well of him, wanted to be someone whom Bruce could live with, could be proud of. It wasn't that Neal never cared what anyone thought of him. Neal had cared very much what Kate thought of him. In retrospect, maybe too much, although Neal hadn't admitted that aloud, particularly not to Mozzie or to his mother - Selina- who had warned him about Kate, years ago.

Neal cared what June and June's family thought of him. They'd all been kind to him, with no motivation beyond that they were decent people, and seemed to like Neal for himself, even when he wasn't exerting himself to be charming.

And Neal cared what Peter thought, because Peter had been...willing to give Neal a chance, despite Neal's having done his best to make three years of Peter's life miserably frustrating. Peter was the first person in a very long time who had expected the best of Neal, and stood by Neal, no matter what. Well, almost always, and even when he didn't believe Neal, he was usually willing to listen, and do his best to help Neal.

On the other hand, Bruce, in a free association test, still registered as, 'Selina's boyfriend,' to Neal. And Batman, still registered as, 'Someone who is not willing to listen to cleverly plausible excuses for 'accidentally' having bent the rules. Avoid if at all possible.' And Selina...well, Neal's perception of Selina was more complicated. She had carried him for nine months, given birth to him, then found him a wonderful set of adoptive parents, Pierre and Analiese Laurent. Neal's adoptive parents had exemplified not only elegance, but also decency and respect for others. Out of anyone he'd ever met, Peter and Elizabeth came the closest to reminding Neal of Pierre and Analiese. Well, Peter wasn't elegant, unless he absolutely had to be to keep his cover for a case, and even then he needed a great deal of help from Neal and Elizabeth, but...everything else.

Neal had loved his adoptive parents, and had enjoyed a fairly idyllic childhood with them for the first seven years of his life. Then they'd been killed because Pierre was a decent man, and would not ignore discrepancies in the books of his business. Neal would have been killed in the same 'car accident' that killed his parents, but that his parents' murderers had done their homework. Selina's signature on Neal's adoption certificate had saved his life. Even Eastern European hitmen hadn't wanted to really upset the Catwoman. But it hadn't saved Neal's innocence, after he'd been turned over to the smugglers who had paid for his parents' murder.

Less than a year later, the artist and patriot Martina Prazka had salvaged what was left of Neal (though he'd been Nikolai Masek, by then, no longer Nicolas Laurent. He'd almost been Nikolai Prazka, and was still years away from becoming Neal Caffrey). Martina had helped Neal to rebuild himself into a survivor, had taught him how to walk through a storm while holding true to his soul. Neal had loved Martina dearly. She had been half his mother and half his older sister and entirely in his corner. Her death had been worse for Neal than being recaptured by his earlier tormentors, and it was because they had arranged Martina's death that Neal had taken the necessary actions to destroy them. Then he'd left for America, where he'd taken on a variety of different names - Nick Williams, Norm Dwyer, Nathan Davidson - there were so many that Neal had trouble remembering them. And several years after first leaving Europe, in a poor but decent part of New York City, Alex Nichols had become Neal Caffrey.

It was as Neal Caffrey that Neal first came face-to-face with the Catwoman. It was Neal Caffrey, art forger and restorer, who had first been hired by Selina Kyle. Selina had known Martina Prazka...had been the only one to connect Nikolai Prazka to Neal Caffrey. She hadn't connected Nikolai Prazka to Nicolas Laurent until Neal himself had told her, but then, no one ever had. Still, Selina knew Neal, understood him, on a level that Neal wasn't sure that anyone else ever had, ever could. Selina alone understood Neal's internal struggle when Peter had caught him for those forged bonds. Only Selina, other than Mozzie and Kate, realized that Neal could have escaped legal consequences again, if he'd been willing to throw Kate to the wolves by confessing just who she'd promised his services to, in forging those bonds. Selina alone had known that Neal wouldn't do that, because he loved Kate. And Selina had cleaned up after them, seen to it that the crooked business men behind that personal disaster of Neal's were revealed for something else (so that it couldn't be traced to Neal) and then imprisoned. When Neal had told Selina that she was his mother, Selina had said that she understood that he didn't want or need a mother, had understood that he could accept a friend, so that is what she had offered to be. And she'd been true to her word, although she'd kept bringing one member or another of Bruce's family to their lunch engagements and outings...Neal's mouth twitched into a wry smile, one similar to Bruce's, as he thought that nothing with Selina was ever simple.

Meanwhile, Bruce had waited patiently while Neal's fevered mind rambled pensively through his own past. When Neal's attention returned to Bruce, the veteran crime-fighter answered Neal's earlier half-teasing sally, "In respect of keeping the skills which you PREVIOUSLY used for illegal purposes well-honed for more lawful endeavors..."

Neal leaned forward, interested despite his fever and exhaustion, "Yes?" He inquired brightly. Well, as brightly as he could in a whisper through an oxygen mask.

Bruce's lips quirked into what was almost a smile, and Neal felt a bit of trepidation. With good reason, as it turned out.

"If you apply your considerable energies and talents to improving your practically non-existent combat skills..." Bruce began, pausing when Neal made a disgusted face, and then continuing, "I will see to it that you have a chance to accompany Dick and some of the others when they go off to 'case' the homes of various criminal targets."

Neal sighed irritably. He had no real interest in joining 'the family business,' not beyond the occasional interesting little errands the JLA asked him to take on when they needed more than one Selina, or when his mother was busy elsewhere. Neal was in good shape, he lifted weights and jogged several times a week. He was an excellent fencer, a terrific dancer, and a passable gymnast, all disciplines that had helped Neal with his former profession. Neal had even moonlighted as a yoga instructor to the rich and famous (something he'd taken pains to conceal from Peter, not so much because it was illegal but because he didn't want to hear the agent's teasing).

But Neal did not want to learn how to defeat three armed criminals with one hand behind his back. To Neal, the point was to avoid ever getting into such a situation in the first place, and failing that, to talk his way out of it. Bruce, on the other hand, had been arranging for combat lessons for Neal since it first came to light that Neal was related to Selina. Neal had been avoiding them, and when he couldn't avoid them, trying to talk his way out of them. So instead of continuing this conversation, Neal pretended that he'd been hit by another coughing fit, which turned quickly enough into a real coughing fit.

Bruce sighed in exasperation, almost as if he knew that Neal had been faking, and by doing so had caused himself more discomfort. But he still came over and patted Neal on the back, helping the younger man brace himself against the paroxysms of coughing racking his thin body. When it was over, Bruce offered Neal another apple juice.

Neal managed a half-apologetic smile, hoping that Bruce was distracted from the previous subject of conversation. Neal had little interest in rehashing the 'you need to learn to how to defend yourself if you want to be more than a target,' argument.

Bruce merely raised an eyebrow, "We will discuss this again before you return to the FBI." He assured Neal in a quiet, firm tone.

Neal winced, because it was a promise, rather than a threat.

Shaking his head at Neal, Bruce complained, "You and your mother. If you would just do the sensible thing, then we wouldn't have to argue."

Neal made another face, thinking that he was glad that Selina had spent so many years as a thorn in Bruce's side.

Snorting lightly as he appeared to read Neal's mind again, Bruce offered, "If you will stop talking and relax, I will continue my story."

Neal mimed closing his mouth, and leaned back against his pillows, gesturing for Bruce to continue. Neal had heard some of the story from Selina before, but never from Bruce's perspective.

"So," Bruce began, "despite my best intentions to pursue the alluring cat-burglar and bring her to justice, events did not unfold that way. Instead..."

(End note: Please review if you liked this – it's a much more complicated crossover than I've ever attempted before, and outside of my normal comfort zone, so encouragement would be particularly welcome. Constructive criticism, of course, too. Thank you!)

5


	5. Chapter 5

Title: Inherited Traits, Learned Behaviors, and Unexpected Gifts

Series: Inherited Traits  
Author: Susana  
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, etc., belong to DC or USA.

Chapter Title: When Bruce Met Selina, and the Cell Phone Follies

Chapter Summary: Bruce tells Neal about the first time he met Selina, and both of them get a phone call.

**Quote:**

"One reason we admire cats is for their proficiency in one-upsmanship. They always seem to come out on top, no matter what they are doing, or pretend to do." – Barbara Webster.

"I'm not interested in playing games." – Bruce Wayne, Detective Comics Vo. 1 744.

"Strange about parents. We have such easy access to them and such daunting problems of communication." – James Merrill

**Excerpt: Last lines of previous chapter:**

"'So," Bruce began, "despite my best intentions to pursue the alluring cat-burglar and bring her to justice, events did not unfold that way. Instead...'"

Chapter 5:

Back in the early days of Bruce's career as Batman, he didn't have a team backing him up. The Gotham City Police Department was still recovering from the rife corruption that had flourished there until Batman, Harvey Dent, Jim Gordon, and the current tough-on-crime mayor had begun to get it under control. So, Batman had no time to deal with the cat burglar who had bested him. All of Batman's time was consumed with putting an end to a vicious, seemingly random murdering spree.

As the investigation progressed, Bruce began to suspect that the horrific, bloody murders were just a distraction. Other deaths were occurring at around the same time, but at first Batman hadn't realized that they were connected. The torture-murders of innocents had claimed his attention; it wasn't until later that he noticed the wealthy and well-connected suffering a statistically unlikely number of fatal accidents, and several unusual assassinations.

"I swear, I don't know anything else!" A terrified hired killer protested, as Batman held him upside down over a river. "I just overheard them talking about campaign numbers and that my killing that guy would be enough to make the others change their support to another candidate!"

"What others?" Batman growled, shaking the man, as much from his own frustration as from a need to intimidate.

"I don't know!" The hired killer wailed, "I can't tell you if I don't know!"

Batman then had the killer repeat everything he did know, because Batman had found that often observers - crooks or witnesses - knew a lot more than they realized.

"He...the man who gave me the job, he smelled...weird." The killer babbled.

Batman rolled his eyes and growled, "Weird, in what way?"

"Weird...like the closet at that fancy shindig tonight, where I tried to hit my mark!" The assassin yelped, squirming frantically.

Batman grunted, considering that. The assassin's target that evening had been a wealthy industrialist's assistant. If the assistant had died, the industrialist in question (who was a coward when it came to anything but high finance), would almost certainly have withdrawn his support from the current mayor, and instead would have made whatever contribution the hired killer's shadowy client would have asked for. The hired killer had concealed himself in the coat check at one of the opening parties of the spring social season. Some of the people invited had been friends of Bruce's parents, good people if a little out of touch with the real world (not unlike Bruce himself, before his travels). However, such parties had always seemed to Bruce to be nothing more than an occasion for the most vapid of Gotham's elite to get together, show off their money, and brag about their new toys. Annoyed that he would probably have to subject himself to those same parties in order to get to the bottom of this crime spree, Bruce dropped the hired killer's head into the water for a moment. Because he didn't want to become like the men he hunted, Bruce picked the fellow back up out of the water before he could do more than splutter. Then Batman left him tied up outside GCPD headquarters, with a dossier of his past criminal history taped to the ropes. Batman knew that the assassin would be in and out of jail like a slippery fish if he were tried for attempted murder in Gotham. But Bruce also knew that Jim Gordon and Harvey Dent were too smart to go down that road. when they had the option of extraditing the waste-of-breath scum to another state where Batman had given them proof that he actually had killed someone. Murder was a much easier sell than attempted murder; the dead body where there had once been a living, breathing person always spoke volumes. Such deaths produced an outraged silence, as Bruce knew all too well.

Batman intensely resented spending evenings as Bruce Wayne instead of protecting his city. But between the hitman's unintentional clue, his own investigation, and some information from Jim Gordon's sources in the Mayor's office, Batman managed to piece together that the torture-murders were just an elaborate, inhuman cover-up. The underlying scheme was beginning to look like extortion and bribery, secured by threats and murder. And many of the dead, and the men whom Bruce could prove had been scared into making payments or giving information, were somehow connected to the mayor's office or his campaign. After his normal criminal informants and even his sources in the mob had nothing to give him, Batman began to realize that there might well be blue blood and old money involved in the in the plot. It shouldn't have been a shock, but Bruce was still learning that when men born to privilege turn to crime, they can be just as bad if not worse than any other criminal.

"They're worse," Jim Gordon had complained to Batman, "Because often the people they victimize and embroil in their schemes aren't even real to them. The world is meant to be their oyster. To the extent that it isn't, well, that gives them the right to fix things, doesn't it?"

Batman grunted in agreement. He was very unhappy at the idea of having to go undercover as Bruce Wayne, discreetly sleuthing out who might have the connections and the chutzpah to pull these strings and arrange multiple deaths to distract from the theft of millions of dollars from the mayor's reelection campaign and from the Gotham city budget. But to shirk from any task, no matter how repugnant, that might help him solve these murders, would be an insult to the dead. So Bruce asked Alfred to arrange for a number of social appearances, and tried not to roll his eyes and gnash his teeth as Alfred took obvious pleasure in his former charge's plans. The first event that Bruce was to attend took place on a rainy March 21st, an evening which Bruce would never forget.

For that was when Bruce first met Selina.

He noticed her immediately, even across the vast expanse of the Gotham Museum of Natural History atrium. The stately old marble building was playing the host to one of Mary-Rose Kane's elegant charity balls. The mysterious beauty, glamorous in a simple sheath dress of dark blue-violet, was chatting with Mary-Rose, and the elderly and hypochondriac Marston Fisher.

Bruce accepted a glass of champagne from a roving waiter, and went over to join them. It was only proper for him to pay his compliments to Mary-Rose, as the hostess and one of his own distant cousins. And Marston Fisher was one of the society blue-bloods who Bruce wanted to talk to, anyway. Batman didn't suspect Fisher of being involved in anything illegal, but he was very observant, and so elderly that many of Gotham's social elite took less care than they should in what they said around him.

"Bruce, darling," Mary-Rose greeted him with a friendly-enough smile, "It is always a pleasure to see you at one of our little parties."

Which Bruce supposed was the truth. He knew that Mary-Rose didn't approve of his play-boy, womanizing ways. Neither did Alfred, in point-of-fact (although Alfred, at least, knew the reason for Bruce's caddish behavior). But the hostess in Mary-Rose was probably glad for the hefty checks which Bruce always donated to the charities that she supported.

"Mary, cousin dear," Bruce replied, leaving off the 'Rose,' since Mary-Rose hadn't referred to him by his preferred society nick-name of 'Brucie.' Batman preferred to optimize all of his appearances as Bruce Wayne, in order to make Bruce look as foolish and un-Batman-like as possible, with minimum amount of time away from being Batman. Mary-Rose, of course, didn't understand that. And since she had once supervised the younger Bruce and her younger sisters Katherine and Bette at Kane family reunions, Mary Rose knew that Bruce hadn't always been a fool. She was probably calling him 'Bruce' instead of 'Brucie' to express her disapproval, and it was none of her business, anyway. She couldn't know that the whole facade was necessary to Batman, and Bruce, of course, was not going to tell her. Instead, he leered, and said to the dark-haired beauty beside Mary-Rose, "I don't think we've met. I never forget a face as beautiful as yours. I'm Bruce Wayne."

"Oh, I know who you are." The glamorous unknown assured Bruce, with a confident, almost teasing smile.

Normally, introducing himself as Bruce Wayne garnered almost a fawning reaction, or at least awe and a flattered blush, from any woman. This one looked unimpressed, which intrigued him, and Bruce suppressed an annoyed glare as he saw Mary-Rose's amused smile.

"Bruce...Brucie," Mary-Rose began, and all of a sudden Bruce hated his nick-name, hated everything about his act that meant he couldn't meet this strange, lovely woman as anything but a caricature of a wealthy dilettante, as Mary-Rose continued, "Allow me to introduce you to Selina Kyle, a friend of mine from boarding school."

"Enchante, Mademoiselle," Bruce said seductively, as he took Selina's pale, graceful hand, and pressed his lips to it. Bruce remembered that Mary-Rose had attended highschool in France, and supposed that French would be a safe language in which to address a school friend.

Selina permitted the romantic gesture, her blue-violet eyes alight with amusement. Bruce, who was supposed to be so jaded that the sight of an incomparable beauty only spurred him onto greater feats of seduction, was struck dumb. Not only was the woman incredibly lovely, but she had the cat-thief's eyes. Bruce had only seen them that one night, several weeks ago, but they were unmistakable. Dark blue, with just a hint of lavender.

"An..honor, to make your acquaintance as well, Mr. Wayne." Selina said throatily, and it was the same voice. The cat-woman's voice.

Bruce fought not to stare, even as he made himself keep being Bruce Wayne. So he smiled lecherously, and invited Selina to call him Brucie.

At that point, Marston Fisher cleared his throat, and Bruce turned his attention to the object of his attendance at this ridiculous party. The role of 'Brucie Wayne' fit over Batman perfectly again, as Bruce apologized for his rudeness in not greeting Marston earlier.

"Heh, heh. No apology is necessary, Brucie. An old man like me shouldn't rate much attention when he keeps company with such beauties." Marston Fisher smiled genially at Mary-Rose, Selina, and Bruce, before frowning irritably as he was approached by his nephew, Alan Granville, and a man whom Bruce did not know.

"Dr. Kendrick," Marston reproached the man wearily, "I can assure you that I am drinking the sparkling cider which Miss Mary-Rose so kindly provided, and not anything alcoholic. And that I am quite fine enough to stay at this delightful party until well after midnight, after the long nap which you forced me to take this afternoon."

Bruce frowned fractionally, as Marston brow-beat his doctor into leaving him alone, and his nephew Alan into letting the doctor leave him alone. Bruce hadn't realized that Marston's health had deteriorated to the point where he needed to be constantly attended by a physician. Oh, the old man, a member of Bruce's grandparents' generation, had always had one health complaint or another, but they had never seemed to slow him down before. And now he seemed gray, almost delicate. Bruce observed with disquiet that Mary-Rose and Selina were exchanging a look of concern. Mary-Rose might be annoying, but she was no alarmist. Bruce remembered quite clearly that an arsonist setting one of her best friend's weddings ablaze hadn't even fazed Mary-Rose; instead, she'd been calmly directing the guests to leave the building. She'd even been composed enough to tell Batman where the fire had started, and to recall and describe a man who wasn't a guest staring avidly at the burning building.

"Marston," Bruce asked genially after the doctor had been dismissed, "I've been away from Gotham for most of the season. In the Caribbean on my yacht, you know. I'm wondering if you could fill me in on the gossip I've missed...for instance, why is Bunny Henderson all of a sudden keeping company with Geoffrey Alton the Third?" Geoffrey was a bit of a bully, and his father had been worse. Geoffrey Alton Junior had been infamous for engaging in suspicious business practices before his untimely death. Geoffrey Alton the Third was on Batman's short-list of suspects for the murder/extortion scheme.

"Nasty business, that," Marston informed Bruce, with the confiding manner of an inveterate gossip, "Geoffrey was engaged to Gretchen Vanderhausen, until just two months ago. He broke it off with her, and has spread all manner of terrible rumors about her..."

"None of which are true," Mary-Rose interrupted angrily, "Poor Gretchen is so awfully upset, and Bunny and a number of others are pursuing Geoffrey as if he's the victim in all of this."

"The blood bath begins," Selina added acidly, "Geoffrey has a poisonous personality and a thicker pocketbook, so Gretchen has been basically black-listed. And in the few weeks since he's been back on the market as a potential husband, Geoffrey has become a society darling."

"Ah, mankind at its best." Bruce replied sardonically, before remembering that he was supposed to be a vacuous airhead interested in such petty gossip. That he needed to be perceived as just that, both for his cover, and to find out who was using their position amongst Gotham's privileged elite to scheme with civil servants and members of the Gotham underworld to steal the city blind, replace the mayor with anyone else, and commit wanton murders to obscure their true intentions.

Bruce's momentary slip had made Selina give him a second, more intent appraisal. Part of Bruce warmed at the attention, but he quickly jerked his attention back to the mission, hastily changing the subject, "What about the Carlyle twins? Are they still single, and ah, most often interested in the same man?"

Marston grinned, not at all annoyed. Marston loved gossip. Bruce was able to work the topic of the Carlyle twins back to what Geoffrey Alton had been up to, and also subtly probe for information about the other men on his short list. Selina listened with an attentive expression and a bemused sparkle in her eyes for a few minutes, before accepting an invitation to dance with one of Mary-Rose's wealthy friends. Bruce fought back a feeling of disappointment, but stuck to the mission. With a Carlyle twin on either arm, Bruce went around the room and had a few drinks with each of his suspects. Even at the time, he thought that Selina might be Catwoman. It was those blue-violet eyes, as well as her height and clever repartee. But Selina moved like a pretty young woman with some training as a classical dancer. While Catwoman moved like cross between an athlete and Mata Hari. Still, Catwoman stealing pretty baubles from the well-off and even famous pieces from museums was just not high enough on Bruce's priority list to compete with the murder-extortion plot. Which he was making little to no progress on. The rich and privileged of Gotham had no shortage of dirty secrets, but nothing that hinted at the heinous and casual cruelty he was looking for. And he was having no luck finding the connection that the perpetrators must have at the mayor's office, or how would they know which of the mayor's campaign contributors to scare into supporting someone with a softer stance on crime? The other candidates themselves were clean...and the some of the money supporting the worst of the mayoral candidates was definitely coming from overseas. But without the middle men, whom he was increasingly sure belonged to the Gotham elite, Batman could not pin down and stop the money trail.

The next time that Batman saw Catwoman (rather than Selina), it was weeks after their first meeting. And she was doing something entirely different.

Batman was patrolling the city that night. He had been forced to play "Bruce Wayne" so frequently of late, that he was almost relieved to be back on the streets of Gotham. Well, except for the serious reason that he needed to be there. The Quest was serious at all times; Bruce allowed himself some satisfaction at stopping crime. But no satisfaction for needing to prevent crime, and no joy in the act of stopping criminals. Batman hated that Gotham was so tortured by crime that she needed him. That night, just as he was leaving mid-town to patrol near the museums (where he rather hoped that the Catwoman might be), Bruce heard a woman's terrified screams coming from the edge of Memorial Park. He didn't even waste the energy to swear under his breath as he raced to her rescue. Batman -and Bruce - hated to have women frightened and hurt by violence more than he hated almost anything in the world. Bruce actively feared for the poor woman whose screams were growing weaker even as he drew closer to her, in a way that he did not fear when he stopped armed robbers from entering a bank or dodged bullets to prevent a drug shipment. Worse, Bruce feared that he would be too late. Not to stop the assailant, but to save the woman from what he feared was much worse than a mere robbery.

The screams stopped, and Bruce's heart nearly stopped. But he didn't pause. He arrived at the Memorial Park founder's fountain just in time to see a middle-aged woman wiping away tears of fright and kicking a man who was tied to a broken street lamp with what looked like packing twine.

"I had intended to use the twine for securing cloth around art work while I moved it from one location to another. Just as a favor for a friend, you know." The Catwoman informed Bruce in her throaty contralto. "But it seemed appropriate to stop and help keep the park clean."

Bruce grunted to hide his shock, and then growled to Selina, "Where is his gun?," while he secured the would-be rapist more thoroughly with handcuffs and rope.

Selina pointed to the fountain, and Bruce fished it out, scolding her, "You should have removed the ammunition and secured the firearm. Most modern guns will fire even after immersion. And tying the man up with twine is just sloppy."

The Catwoman shrugged, but the glimmer in her blue-violet eyes clearly conveyed irritation, gratitude, and amusement. Bruce spared a moment to marvel...she had the most expressive eyes. Then the police sirens began to wail, responding at last to the terrified screams. Batman retreated to a nearby roof top, just to make sure that the officers who took the woman's statement and picked up the trash weren't on Jim Gordon's bad list. Catwoman followed him; he didn't encourage her, but he didn't discourage her either. After he'd checked out the police, Batman turned to look at the woman who had shocked him by aiding him in the Quest that night.

"What are you?" Batman asked her harshly.

Catwoman just tilted her pretty head, and answered, as if there was only one possible answer to that question, "I am me."

Bruce growled in frustration, his jaw clenching in a way that was probably obvious even under his cowl. Then he clarified, "No, I meant are you a criminal, or a crime-fighter?"

As though she thought that she'd already answered his question, the Catwoman just smiled and said, "Meow." Then she made a judicious exit. Batman didn't pursue, because he had a mugging to stop. It wasn't until later that he realized the Catwoman had plans that night, too. As she told him many years later, she had, in fact, been planning to move a painting (and in fact, for a friend, although said friend was only questionably the legal owner). But the Catwoman also had "a luscious pendant of sapphire and cat's eye jade to replace with an excellent fake," which she managed to to take home, right under his nose.

Bruce scrutinized Selina Kyle very closely at the following night's gala, but elegant Selina gave nothing away. In fact, she gave every impression of being much like any other privileged, spoiled young woman. Bruce teased her about living off of her inheritance (which is the story Mary-Rose had given him), and Selina just smiled mysteriously. She was also kind and solicitous to old Marston Fisher for no immediate reason that Bruce could discern. It made him suspect that she was trying to con the old man, which made him somehow even more unhappy and upset with her than he had been, just thinking that she might be the Catwoman thief. Bruce also felt like he'd gotten knocked in the chest every time Selina showed up at an event on the arm of another bachelor. Which she often did, as Selina changed beaus in those days nearly as frequently as Bruce went through bimbo dates. Although it made Alfred sigh, Bruce went through dates like other men went through clothing,all in order to protect Batman's image. Understandably, many of Bruce's former girlfriends were not on the best of terms with him, despite having the cache of having been one of "Bruce's babes." Yet Selina seemed to be able to manage to part from all of her amours on good terms. It caused Bruce to wonder if Selina was really a professional escort, or if she was just that good at being a charming date and letting a man down easy. It seemed the second, or at least so far as he could tell by covertly investigating the matter.

Part of his investigation involved chatting up Mary-Rose. She seemed reluctant to tell him anything about Selina, but shamelessly tried to get him involved in her campaign to socially rehabilitate Gretchen Vanderhausen. Bruce evaded; he didn't want to get to know these people any more than he had to in order to solve his case. As soon as he had his answers, he was done with being Bruce Wayne so frequently.

Despite keeping that in mind, Bruce was jealous of the men whom Selina chose to spend her time with, and he did need to find out if she was Catwoman or not. But it was mostly because Bruce didn't know what Selina's game was with Marston that he spent so much time with her. Or at least that's what he told himself.

Bruce lucked out, in that good old Geoffrey Alton the Third (whom Bruce still had under surveillance as a possible suspect in the extortion-murder scheme that Bruce was primarily investigating), ended up asking Selina, "Why do you spend so much time with that old fossil?," while gesturing towards Marston.

Selina smiled brightly in reply, but the glimmer in her eyes was predatory. "Marston is a dear, and a very stimulating conversationalist. So few people are."

"I suppose so." Geoffrey agreed, his attention moving away from Selina to his diamond-studded watch. "Ah. I must be going. I hope to see you later, Selina. Racquetball at the club tomorrow, Brucie?"

Bruce forced himself to smile and clasp Geoffrey's arm as they were great friends and nothing could please him more.

Selina gave Bruce a curious look after Geoffrey left. "I wouldn't think that you would be after Geoffrey's pocket book or the social standing of being known as his friend, Bruce. And I can't think of why else you would subject yourself to his company so often."

Bruce couldn't explain that, and besides, he had a question for her. So he replied, "Geoffrey's alright, in his way. Not as stimulating a conversationalist as Marston, of course..."

Laughing as her eyes sparkled, Selina explained, "Actually, Marston reminds me of my favorite art history professor. And Mary-Rose wants to make sure he isn't bored at any of her parties, since he's her godfather and he's having so many health problems. Geoffrey, on the other hand, is just a puss ball."

Bruce had to grin back. But since he was there to investigate, he went ahead and asked, "What do you think of the rumor that Geoffrey is secretly a drug dealer?" It was a rumor that Bruce had spread himself, just to see what came up. If Geoffrey was involved in something else, a rumor of wrong-doing might be enough to bring that forward. And it let Bruce ask the people who knew his suspects well questions about their possible criminal activities, under the cover that it was all just gossip. He didn't expect Selina to know anything, though. She was a newcomer to Gotham high society, and probably just a clever, pretty conwoman.

Selina considered Geoffrey's retreating back, after a moment replying thoughtfully, "No, I don't think he's a drug dealer. In all honesty, I don't think he has the time-management skills for that. He is, however, having an affair with Mrs. Granville, which Marston threatened to expose if they didn't inform Mr. Granville of it. Which explains why Geoffrey is being nasty to, and about, Marston."

Selina paused as Bruce gave her an intrigued, amused nod. Internally, he was trying to factor that information into his investigation. If Geoffrey was disappearing to have an affair with a married woman, that did, in fact, make him a puss ball. But not a criminal. Selina didn't know about Batman's investigation, and she'd already proved helpful, so he just gave her charming smile, and leaned closer to whisper in her ear, "Go on..."

Ducking her head and laughing to conceal a shiver (which made Bruce inexplicably happy), Selina did continue, her expression becoming more solemn, "If anyone here tonight were to be involved in something more serious, I would wonder about Bobby Cavendish and Anthony Ryan. They've had money to burn these past few weeks, where previously their parents kept them on a tight string. And when I was at the club with Mary-Rose and Bunny the other day..."

"Mary-Rose hates Bunny," Bruce interrupted in surprise, before wincing and hating himself for knowing that.

Selina laughed, her throaty, touchable laugh, rich as fine dark chocolate. "Yes. But it's necessary, sometimes, to have lunch with those you hate, in order to find out what they know and get them to do things for you. Like put a friend back onto their invitation lists."

"Ah, the Gretchen issue." Bruce said aloud, since he wanted to encourage Selina to keep talking. He needed to know what she knew about Bobby Cavendish and Anthony Ryan, "So, what did you ladies see, at the club?"

Smiling coyly, Selina asked, "What's it worth to you, Bruce?"

Cursing himself for betraying his interest like an obvious fool, Bruce smiled lightly, and tried to back pedal, "A moment of amusement, Selina dear, no more. But you know how seriously I take my amusement."

"Very seriously, if rumor holds true." Selina replied, absently twirling the stem of a crystal wine glass in her hand, "In which case, in exchange for my silly little bit of gossip from the club, you would be willing to take Gretchen as your date to the Victory Races?"

Bruce couldn't care less about horses. He felt a little sorry for Gretchen, whom he remembered from his parents' parties as a shy and slightly plump little girl, a childhood playmate of Mary-Rose Kane's. But Bruce had more important things to be doing than getting involved in Gotham high society internal brangles. Even if Selina was the catwoman burglar, it wasn't worth this much of Bruce's time and trouble. Not when there were bigger problems in Gotham, like murders and extortion.

But he might well need this information, to solve one of those bigger crimes. Gordon was getting desperate. If that money went into influencing the next mayoral election...they could lose all of the ground they had gained with the GCPD. And it was only one afternoon. So Bruce reluctantly agreed, "Amusing enough to take Gretchen to the race," Then smiled rakishly, "But only if you will join us with...whomever is your escort of the evening." Bruce said the last with just a hint of criticism.

Selina raised her chin in challenge, while at the same time endearingly brushing back an errant lock of dark brown hair. "At least my dates don't end the evening alone with a new bauble after I disappear." Selina paused, before giving Bruce a slightly apologetic look, "Or even worse, end up in the bathroom crying because their date, Anthony Ryan, dropped them like a hot potato on Saturday night," when the last of the pay-outs had occurred, Bruce recalled. "And then showed up at the club the next day for lunch, a thirty-something civil servant with a bad haircut on his arm."

Bruce only just managed not to curse aloud. The government connection was the mayor's secretary, a woman whom he'd never even looked twice at. For Batman, an unforgivable lapse. Maybe he really was the misogynist that Selina had accused him of being, but that was a thought for another day. Now, he had several murderers and extortionists to tie up in a neat bow for Gordon and the GCPD. And an excuse to make. "My apologies, Selina, I just remembered that I'm late for an appointment with my...tailor."

Selina rolled her eyes, "I'm not your date, Bruce. You don't need to make up some lame excuse for me when you remember a prettier face you'd rather go chase. I don't care what you do; you're not my mystery to solve."

Bruce left with an enigmatic smile and a cryptic compliment, but what he really wanted to do was tell Selina that there were no prettier faces than hers, not anywhere. That if he didn't have so many secrets of his own, he'd love to be her mystery to solve. And it made him wonder who was her mystery to solve...

"My apologies, Master Bruce." Alfred interrupted, a fond smile on his face, "I am sorry to interrupt your reminiscing, however Lucius Fox is on line 2."

"I told him not to call unless it was an emergency," Bruce said with a sigh, accepting the phone and heading in the direction of his study. Neal could hear Bruce complaining to his business manager, "Lucius? Can this wait? Neal is sick." A pause, and then, "Yes, Selina's boy. No, we're not sure." Another pause, and then Bruce said in the tone that for him indicated he was mildly amused, "Yes, he is, and I'm sure that he'd be thrilled to take Tam to that musical so that you don't have to." Another pause, and more seriously,"Yes, tell Congress that they can use the shipping that we have under contract to move supplies and relief troops. Right, don't hold that up. Do remind the congressmen on the defense committee that our non-lethal weapons division could use a more generous research and development tax break." A pause, "Yes, it would help the small suppliers more...yes, I think so. We recruit heavily from those companies, and our people often go back to them in management roles, or found new ones."

Although Neal was intrigued by Bruce's conversation, he took the opportunity to pull a cell phone out of a hidden compartment in the elaborately carved headboard of his bed. Alfred gave him an amused look.

Neal smiled back, hoping that Alfred wasn't in on the whole cell phone gestapo routine that Bruce was engaging in.

Shaking his head as he gave Neal another box of tissues, Alfred replied to the unspoken question, "No, dear boy. As long as you are staying in bed and not wandering 'downstairs' to ride a motorcycle off to Heaven-knows-where, I think that a phone call is fine enough."

Neal gave Alfred an inquiring look, wondering which of Bruce's children had done such a foolish thing. Neal could actually see any of them except for maybe Dick doing something like that, given the correct circumstances. To Neal's disappointment, Alfred didn't seem inclined to explain further. Instead he just told Neal in a firm, kind tone, "Please do not talk for so long that you have another coughing fit." As Alfred left the room, he added, "And do remember that Master Bruce will likely not be on the phone more than fifteen minutes."

"Thanks, Alfred." Neal whispered hoarsely, while dialing Mozzie's current cell phone number. Mozzie's phone numbers changed every few days. Fortunately, Neal was good at memorizing strings of numbers.

"So, sprung from slavery to the suits and residing in the lap of luxury. Only you, my friend." Mozzie answered.

Neal sighed. Mozzie didn't even know that Neal was Bruce's son as well as Selina's. Neal knew that he would have to tell his old friend soon, but Mozzie already thought that Neal was a fool for not milking being the only son of Bruce Wayne's girlfriend for all it was worth. Mozzie also thought that Neal was a fool for not being able to follow through with selling the Nazi treasure that Mozzie had 'removed' from 'the suits'' possession, and instead negotiating the return of all but a few pieces to the proper authorities. Neal didn't even want to try to explain to Mozzie his reluctance to rely on Bruce and Selina for anything. He wasn't sure if it made sense, even to himself. Peter just teased Neal about it, but Mozzie would be incredulous and critical. Neal wasn't looking forward to that. He wondered how strange his life had become, that he would ever be fine with Peter knowing a secret, but afraid how Mozzie would react.

So instead, Neal just said,"I'm a prisoner in a luxurious room, Moz. Believe me, Selina has been worse than Brunhilda."

Laughing at the the memory of the nickname he had bestowed on the authoritative nurse who had cared for Neal when he'd been sick with the flu last year in a New York hospital, Mozzie teased, "Selina is much prettier than Brunhilda."

Neal groaned, "Not funny, Moz. She's my mother." Before Mozzie could reply, Neal swiftly asked, "Did you find out anything about the trail of the ivory statutes, after they left the Middle East?"

"No," Mozzie replied, frustration evident in his voice, "Its like they just disappeared. You may have to tell Tim that we can't help him." Mozzie sounded very unhappy about that. For all that he thought Neal should be taking advantage of Selina's boyfriend, Mozzie did like all of Bruce's children (well, except Damian). And Mozzie always hated not being able to find something; it was one of the traits that he and Neal shared.

"I've been thinking," Neal mused, pausing to take a drink of water before he continued, "If the markets where pieces like that would fetch a good price were all too hot, maybe they didn't move it very far at all. If the current owner can wait to sell..."

"Hmm, just wait until the hunt cools down. Not a bad idea. Would Tim's Middle Eastern friend have any idea who her father sold the pieces to, after he took them from the museum?"

"Probably not," Neal answered, making a mental note to check that with Tim, "I don't think that they've talked much." Among other things, Tim was on-and-off again dating Lucius Fox's daughter, which was an awkward-enough situation during the "off" phases, at least between Lucius and Bruce. Adding to the mix Tim's trying to do a favor for a pretty security guard's daughter whom he'd shared a brief kiss with during his search for Bruce and systematic dismantling of Ra's Al Ghul's League of Assasins...well, it undoubtedly wouldn't help. Besides, it was the first favor that Tim had ever asked of Neal. And even if Tim were no relation to Neal at all, Neal would have owed him for Tim's having disabled Neal's tracking anklet several times when Peter or the JLA may or may not have agreed (Neal hadn't wanted to bother them with the request).

"Not much to go on," Mozzie mused aloud, "Although, maybe...what was the name of that fellow from whom you, ah, acquired those Byzantine mosaics, that one time? In Morocco?"

"Khalid Alvarez." Neal supplied. "And he wasn't a bad guy, except for the whole 'trying to drug me and rob me' thing. But he was polite enough about it. He made sure that I was in a safe enough place before he left."

"At which point, you took the opportunity to relieve him of the Byzantine mosaics in his back room, which were worth much more than the funerary statutes that he stole from you." Mozzie recalled with a chuckle.

"It wouldn't have been possible without your research assistance." Neal told Mozzie, carefully expressing pride and gratitude and even a touch of envy for Mozzie's skills. Neal was an expert at sweet talking Mozzie into doing whatever was necessary to help Neal reach his goals, after all. But then Mozzie was pretty good at convincing Neal to get into one thing or another on his behalf, too. Neal had only rarely told Mozzie "no," especially before he started to work with Peter.

"True." Mozzie agreed, preening just a little, "Do you think that Khalid might be willing to speak to you again? We could tell him about about how Raquel LaRoque ended up getting caught - the worse of a name we can give Keller in the international community, the more likely it is he'll stay in jail this time."

"He might be," Neal mused doubtfully,"Khalid seemed to take the loss of the Byzantine mosaics well enough. Fortunes of war, and that type of thing. But its hard to know for sure unless I meet him face to face," Neal said with exasperation, "Which I can't do this week, at the least."

"Best not make plans for next week, either." Bruce commented, leaning against the doorway of Neal's room with his arms crossed. Bruce's expression was genial enough at first glance, but there was a Look in his eyes that gave Neal a nervous feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"Ah, Hi Bruce," Neal said cheerfully, trying to make his voice sound hale and hearty. Unfortunately, that started another coughing fit. Bruce snagged the phone out of Neal's hand while handing him a cup of water.

"Mr. Havisham, I presume?" Bruce said pleasantly to Mozzie, as Neal hoped very much that Mozzie wouldn't try to speak to Bruce for very long. Mozzie was a poor liar, and Bruce was like a human lie detector. Neal kept coughing, and Bruce started patting him on the back.

"I answer to that name, yes," Mozzie said carefully, evidently not recognizing Bruce's voice. There was really no reason why he should, Neal realized. Bruce sounded different on TV than he did when he was at home. Mozzie hadn't met Bruce yet; he'd met all of Bruce's children, and spent a fair amount of time with Selina. but he hadn't met Bruce yet.

"This is Bruce Wayne. I'm afraid that Neal's not sounding up to talking on the phone anymore today. I'm sure that he'll call you back later." Bruce informed Mozzie, his tone still genial and pleasant, although somehow at the same time expressing concern for Neal. Neal made a note to pay attention to how Bruce did that; in some ways even Neal could learn something from Bruce's chameleon like shift between Batman, Brucie, and Bruce Wayne, responsible Wayne Corp. owner and caring parent.

"Oh!" Mozzie said, clearly surprised, "That's fine. I can just talk to Neal later." Neal stifled a groan. He didn't want to explain to Mozzie why it was that Bruce had decided to play Florence Nightingale/ Phone Gestapo at Neal's bedside, and Mozzie would definitely ask.

Bruce's eyes narrowed speculatively as he looked at Neal, then he began to smile very slightly. It was a very worrying smile. Neal's eyes narrowed right back at Bruce, and Neal held out his hand, whispering, "Phone. I want to say goodbye."

Bruce batted Neal's hand away, and Neal had a only a few moments to deeply and sincerely regret having made this phone call in the first place, before Bruce said to Mozzie, "Neal wants to say goodbye, but he's just stopped coughing and I'd rather that he rest his voice. I am so glad that my son has good friends such as yourself, Mr. Havisham, who call just to wish him well when he's under doctor's orders to rest and not to worry about...work."

Neal fought the simultaneous urges to (1) kill Bruce (well, at least really upset him) and (2) apologize profusely to Mozzie before the situation got any worse. If Neal weren't so exhausted from keeping himself upright and focusing on what to do about Tim's problem, he would have made a grab for the phone to try to explain. Unfortunately, grabbing anything away from Batman would have been a difficult job even if Neal was at 100%, so he just glared. Some part of Neal's mind did marvel out how Bruce was able to convey, in just two sentences, affection for Neal, a subtle jab about Mozzie not being a good friend for failing to think of Neal's health, and also a threat that if Mozzie helped Neal get into more legal trouble, Bruce would disapprove.

"I called him." Neal whispered hoarsely, as Mozzie searched for words on the other side of the phone. Neal also wanted to say that Mozzie hadn't known, and that Bruce had no right to tell him. But he was pretty sure Bruce was aware of the situation, and of Neal's feelings on the matter.

"Ah...yes." Mozzie said at last, sounding rather dazed. "Well, please do tell Neal that I hope he feels better soon. I'll be looking forward to having a nice, long conversation with him then."

"Of course," Bruce answered, now in the hearty tone of a fond parent speaking to a family friend, "My son is a fascinating conversationalist."

Bruce hung up the phone, and Neal crossed his arms, still glaring at Bruce. "That was low." Neal rasped bitterly.

"You had waited too long to tell him already." Bruce replied levelly, "I don't trust the man or like many parts of his past history with you, but I know that he's been your friend since you were barely more than Damian's age. I owe him my gratitude for that. Since the tabloids are already speculating that Selina's young cousin Neal Caffrey is really our secret love child, it seemed only fair to inform your oldest friend." Bruce paused, before adding, "Or rather, warn him. You're going to be a target just for being related to me, Neal. You know that. And that anklet makes you entirely too easy to find." Bruce gave Neal another carefully neutral look, which was by itself the equivalent of a lecture in a raised voice from another man.

Neal normally met that look with a charming smile, but he was too angry for that, just now. And part of his anger was because he knew that Bruce was right about this. To Peter's disbelief, Neal had not-so-subtly blocked Bruce's attempt to use his pull as Wayne Corp. President and founder of Batman Inc. to get Neal's probation ended several years early. Neal, for reasons that he (again) did not entirely understand, he had convinced his parole board that he didn't want any special treatment. Bruce had not been pleased, but since Neal had not officially known that it was Bruce behind the hearing, Neal had pretended that he hadn't known what Bruce wanted. Neal was pretty sure that Bruce was aware of that, but Bruce hadn't called him on it yet.

Nor did he now. Instead Bruce just told Neal quietly, "Better that your friends know, so that they're in a position to look out for that kind of threat. Mozzie is a very capable character, despite his questionable activities. Knowing what the situation is, Mozzie could help to keep himself, you, and the Burkes, all safe, if my enemies target you and your friends."

Bruce was right again, but Neal was tired of being maneuvered. "Any halfway competent kidnapper would be able to find me WITHOUT the anklet signal or hacking the marshals' database. If anything, the anklet makes me safer. The anklet has helped Peter to find me when I, ah," Neal paused with a wince, not sure how to finish that sentence without hurting his case.

"Went off on your own and got in over your head." Bruce observed without sympathy. "And the only thing that they would my enemies would use your anklet for, would be to lay a false trail. They are entirely capable of paying someone at the marshal's office to fool with the monitors so that Peter believes the anklet is still on you."

"Well, first off, your lack of faith in the Marshal's office is a little sad," Neal criticized, "And secondly, the last time that I was kidnapped, it wasn't my fault. And Jason cut my tracker right away, he didn't bother to leave a false trail." Neal came to a stop and threw his hands up in exasperation as he realized that he'd just argued against his initial position of the monitoring anklet keeping him safe.

"I don't like to trust in any government bureaucracy where the safety of my family is concerned." Bruce replied with a slight smile, having followed Neal's train of thought. Then Bruce gave Neal another Look, and said, "Your other phones, Neal. Now."

Very irritated, Neal contemplated saying that he hadn't hidden any other phones in his room.

"Neal. Phones." Bruce repeated, voice still quiet but very intent.

Neal decided against his first impulse, and instead quickly calculated how many of the four phones in his possession he'd have to give up to have this be believable. He huffed out an irritated breath, and pointed to the lowest drawer of his dresser, and then to the air conditioning vent. Bruce quickly found both phones, which irked Neal. He'd been rather proud of the false bottom he'd put into the drawer. After that, Bruce just Looked at him again.

Neal sighed in defeat, and scooted down in the bed a bit, just far enough to kick the side of his mattress under the thickest part of the comforter.

Gratifyingly, Bruce's eyes widened in slight surprise. He used a pocket knife to gently pull apart the seams on the mattress cover, extracting a very thin phone. "Clever." Bruce complimented, with a slight, proud smile.

Neal smiled back, genuinely, this time. Then he remembered that he didn't care that much what Bruce thought of him, and he scowled again. To distract Bruce from further pursuing the phone issue, Neal changed the subject back to Bruce's story. With a cheeky, mocking smile, he asked, "So, after my mother solved your murder and extortion case for you, what happened next?"

Bruce leaned back in surprise, as if he couldn't decide whether to be amused or annoyed. Evidently settling on amused, he continued the story. Although Neal somehow suspected that he hadn't heard the end of the phone issue.

(End note: Please let me know if you enjoyed – and thanks for reading!)

16


	6. Chapter 6

Title: Inherited Traits, Learned Behaviors, and Unexpected Gifts Chapter 5

Series: Inherited Traits  
Author: Susana  
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, etc., belong to DC or USA.

Chapter Title:

Chapter Summary: Bruce continues the tale of his early days sparring - and flirting- with the Catwoman.

**A/N: **This chapter is mainly back story on Selina & Bruce. They are my favorite couple in the DCU, except Dick and Barbara, and with them also being Neal's parents in this AU, my muse insists on flushing out their backstory. They're a fun couple to write. The next chapter will include more Neal and Bruce interaction, and maybe a call from Cassie. Either that chapter or the next will include a phone call from Clark Kent and a story from the early days of the JLA, as well as stories about the escapades of Batman and Selina once Robin was added to the mix. I'd love to hear if you're enjoying the story, and/or if there's anything that you'd specifically like me to include. Neal's early days as Selina's son and Bruce's will be covered later in the story; the muse is just taking the scenic route with respect to building up the background.

My apologies for any details I've gotten wrong with respect to the history and art of China in this chapter. I've tried to be generic, because although I respect and admire the culture, it would take me a fair amount of research to get the details right, and I just don't have the time.

**Quote:**

I'm not sure I like doing anything unless it puts me out on the limb. [After all,] that's where the fruit is, right? I can't help it.  
-Selina Kyle (New Earth) - Catwoman, Vol. 41

Chapter 6:

"After resolving the murder and extortion case," Bruce began.

"With a BIG assist from Selina...," Neal couldn't help but interject, a teasing smile clear on his face even through the oxygen mask.

Lifting an eyebrow, Bruce simply paused. Neal summoned up a contrite expression. Which didn't move Bruce in the slightest.

"I'm sorry," Neal said more sincerely, "I'll stop talking." He made the boy-scout sign with his fingers.

Bruce shook his head with a sigh. "Neal, you were never a boy scout."

Nick smiled back mysteriously. "Neal Caffrey'" hadn't ever been a boy scout, but several of Neal's other aliases had been. Neal and Mozzie had run a good scam back in the days, as part of which Neal pretended to be a student at wealthy prep schools, then later an undergraduate at prestigious universities. It had been a great way for Neal and Mozzie to make money, both picking up clues about valuable items in the possession of Neal's "classmates'" parents, or even gambling and just picking up the odd item here and there.

Evidently deciding to leave that bit of misdirection alone for the time being, Bruce's quiet voice continued the story. It never failed to amaze Neal how different Bruce Wayne sounded from Batman when he spoke. Both 'sides' of Bruce had a deep voice, but Bruce's was smooth and charming; Batman's was hoarse and gravelly. It was clearly Bruce who was speaking now, and despite Neal's best intentions, he found himself relaxing as Bruce spoke, once again drawn into the story.

After solving that important case with SOME inadvertent assistance from Selina, Bruce mostly left the social scene for the rest of that season. Oh, he made a few more appearances, simply to ensure that it didn't seem like Bruce Wayne had been specifically interested in Bobby Cavendish and Anthony Ryan, who were by then known as the 'Mayor Murderers.' But Bruce felt that he had more than satisfied his bimbo quotient, and his goal of differentiating Bruce Wayne from Batman, for that entire year. After all, the tabloids were still publishing new scandals and misstatements from Bruce's weeks of attending party after party.

Batman was happy to be out on the streets, the whole matter having taken entirely too much his time and attention away from night-to-night patrols. The only thing Bruce missed about evenings with the Gotham glitterati, was Selina. Although he complained to Alfred about it, Bruce was secretly glad to have an excuse to see her again. To keep his deal with Selina (and just to make her happy...well, and a little bit because he wanted to...) Bruce not only asked Gretchen Vanderhausen to be his escort to the Victory Horse Races, as he'd promised Selina he would in exchange for her gossip (which ended up breaking the case). But Bruce also asked Beatrice in front of a large group at a charity dinner. And, to make Selina happy, and also for no small amount of his own petty, vindictive pleasure, Bruce snubbed Geoffrey Alton the 3rd on no less than three occasions. The press got wind of it, and came up with an entertaining little article the tagline of which was, "If even playboy Bruce Wayne thinks that you've been a cad to the ladies...its time to reevaluate your life."

Meanwhile, Batman had a dozen or so more run-ins with the Catwoman. Unfortuately, they left him more confused than ever. Oh, sometimes she was coyly escaping him with a flirtatious grin and a suspicious bag, but other times, she was just somewhere she didn't belong.

"What are you doing here?" He growled at her one night, at ten minutes past two a.m., in the moon-lit west gallery of the oriental arts museum.

"Admiring the view." Catwoman told him, her voice quieter, more solemn, than her usual sexy purr.

"Admiring...the view." Batman repeated, as if it might possibly be the most idiotic and patentedly false statement that he'd ever heard.

The Catwoman just shrugged. "I like the museums when the crowds aren't here. Are you really going to arrest me, just for that?"

Bruce growled. She was simply impossible. Worst of all, she seemed to be telling the truth, and how was Batman supposed to stop crime if criminals just spent their nights just gallivanting around, NOT committing crimes.

"This one," Catwoman told him quietly, ignoring his frustrating and gesturing towards a delicate Chinese landscape, a silver lake reflecting the rising moon beneath dusk-dark mountains, with a pair of mandarin ducks flying in low to land on the water. "It was painted by one of the Emperor's mistresses, at a palace that was destroyed in an uprising. This view of the lake will never be seen again; the forests are gone, the shoreline was changed by an earthquake and centuries of flooding. The painting was painted by moonlight and candle-flame; it is only properly seen in the night."

Her tone, as she described the work of art, was that of a lover. Bruce wanted nothing more to sit down beside her on the bench, and talk about how warfare in China had impacted artistic forms and styles. He knew, somehow, that she would be able to speak about even such an esoteric subject with intelligence and passion (Bruce later learned that he was right; not all of Selina's interests overlapped with his own, but enough of them did that the two were never bored when they were together).

Batman, however, was still debating whether it would be worth it to slap cuffs on Catwoman and drag her down to the GCPD for trespassing on museum grounds afterhours. He didn't WANT to; and normally, it wouldn't be worth it. Whoever she was, assuming that he could even GET her to the nearest police station without being interrupted by a more serious crime, she'd be in and out on a trespassing charge in a matter of hours. It would be a waste of time, but the very fact that he didn't WANT to do it made him think that maybe he should. While Batman was debating that, his eyes swept again over the painting.

"It says 'anonymous,'" Batman pointed out harshly, pointing to the museum's informative label on the painting, "And that experts speculate that it was painted by a scribe; not a woman."

"Oh, darling," Catwoman drawled, as if she were telling him not to be fooled into thinking that the handbags hawked on the street corner were real originals, "You can't believe everything you read. The museum also thinks that this is the original."

Batman crossed his arms and gave her a fierce glare. He knew, by now, that she was probably too smart, or at least too careful, to tell him that if she had been the one who stole it. So, instead, he just asked, "How do you know?" The Batman was not too proud to learn more about the arts of crime from his adversaries. Which was true, even if it was not the only reason, or even the primary one, that he spent time talking to Catwoman. Mostly, he just liked spending time with her, but not even Bruce could admit that to himself. Let alone Batman.

"The strokes," She gingerly gestured towards the clearest brush stroke, near the tops of the trees. "Even the Chinese didn't have a paint brush capable of producing this fine of a wispy line, not until after the date of the earthquake I mentioned."

Batman raised an eyebrow under his mask, "So...the original is where?"

Catwoman shrugged again. "Who knows?" She smiled at him, and it was still a teasing, fun appealing little grin...but it was more open, more endearing, than her usual coy, flirtatious behavior in his presence.

"I like to think," the Catwoman told him, "That the original painting disappeared just as that Emperor died. That he left instructions for the painting to be given to his mistress's beloved family."

Bruce looked at the cat-thief as if she might be soft-headed. "The powerful are rarely that sentimental."

"Paintings are rarely this beautiful." Catwoman countered. "Besides, that's when "Silvered Wings" disappeared from the historical tax rolls. And that was probably this piece's real name, rather than the insipid moniker "Moonlit Love" which was assigned to it during the reign of Queen Victoria, when it was 'rediscovered' by an agent of the East India tea company. A man who, incidentally, made a fortune by hiring forgers to reproduce art, before selling 'the original' to an average of four or five different buyers."

Growing suspicious again, Bruce crossed his arms and glared at the Catwoman. To little effect. Because Bruce was really, really curious - and one of Batman's cardinal traits was curiosity, great detective after all - he offered, "I'll ignore the breaking-and-entering - THIS TIME- if you tell me where the real painting is."

Catwoman snorted delicately, as if doubting the Bat's ability- or willingness- to make a point of the trespassing issue. But, as if it didn't really matter to her one way or the other, she told him, "If I had to guess, I would surmise that the original hangs in a municipal building, high in the mountains near the birth place of that long-ago Imperial mistress. A place where it ended up after the Great War, in one of those cosmic coincidences which reunite great art with a fitting place to be displayed."

"If you had to guess..." Batman mocked.

"If," Catwoman agreed with a naughty grin, "I had to guess. Which I don't. You don't have time to handcuff me and drag me anywhere, handsome. More's the pity, because it might be fun. But it just won't work into your schedule tonight. Commissioner Gordon is playing your song." The cat-thief nodded towards the floor-to-ceiling windows, where the bat signal was clearly visible. And that was the end of what Selina would later teasingly call their "first date. You remember, Bruce, the one at the museum? You left me for a different dance partner."

Batman left, but he remembered what he'd learned, that night. Catwoman was not only a skilled thief and burglar. She was also a well read, a student of history, and a clever researcher. Few criminals could boast all of that. More, she was playful. And not in a homicidal maniac type of way. She was just creatively playful. The first criminal he'd ever met whom he wanted to have over for coffee...and more, if she were amenable.

Sometimes Batman sparred with Catwoman; other times she would lend him a hand as if he were some kind of friend of hers whose bizarre obsession with fighting crime she humored, but only when he decided to fight crimes which she found personally repugnant, and only on nights when she didn't have anything interesting to steal. Only rarely would Bruce read of some cat-themed crime in the paper the next morning, without having seen hide nor hair of his Cat. Those days always infuriated him.

"Perhaps, Master Bruce," Alfred suggested disapprovingly, as he fished a crumpled up ball of newspaper out of the crystal orange juice pitcher, "You should just invite the young lady back for dinner."

"She's a THIEF, Alfred!" Bruce objected with disapproving incredulity.

"Of course, sir." Alfred replied levelly, in the frosty tone which Bruce just knew meant that his former guardian thought that it was BRUCE, rather than the Catwoman, who was being ridiculous.

Bruce would ignore Alfred, because he knew that the Catwoman was ridiculous. There were nights where he would find her leaping between the tallest buildings in the city, with only her whip to anchor and hold her.

"You're going to get killed." He told her, fighting an urge to offer her a grappling hook and line.

Her face adorably flushed with exercise and exhilaration, she put a hand on her curvy hip and retorted saucily, "I'm entirely too good at this to fall."

She was ridiculous. And an idiot. But normally, Batman did not find cause to full-out fight her. Perhaps it was a failing on his part, because he found her too attractive, too appealing. And partly it was a failing on his part, that he hesitated, especially in those early days, to physically grapple with female criminals. Especially those who were inherently lady-like, such as the Catwoman. Well, at least those with who weren't actively trying to kill him. Catwoman had never tried to do anything more than escape from Batman with her stolen goods intact; well, except for that one time.

She'd added claws to her costume, customized small, sharp knives built into her gloves. Retractable. Quite clever, really. And Batman didn't really object to them that much. A lady had to protect herself, after all. And they were close quarters weapons. That changed, to some extent, the one day that their chase became so heated that she swiped his shoulder with her claws, to get away. It left a scar. She gave him three weeks cat-crime free and an armed mugger tied up with a bow as an apology gift.

"I didn't meant to hurt you that badly," she apologized to him, when they were jumping roof to roof, "I expected you to have armor there."

He just grunted in reply, saving his breath for the chase. She was remarkably athletic and graceful. "I do, now." He answered, when she paused to give him a concerned look, hundreds of feet over the ground. She could have been killed.

In time, he developed a profile, of sorts, for the Catwoman. It wasn't easy, for she was eccentric and creative and smart enough not to leave fingerprints or fall into a routine he could predict. But she did tend to steal certain items. Not just cat items, or at least not after the first few months she spent in Gotham. Rather, she would take valuable items, belonging only to wealthy persons or institutions, which also had a suspect provenance. Batman was extremely proud of himself, the first time he managed to show up early enough to surprise her. The scene was a millionaire's daughter's birthday party, in a vault containing the real diamond earrings (circa the French Revolution), the synthetic copy of which the wealthy airline CEO had given to his little girl as a sweet sixteen present in another part of the palatial estate.

He managed to capture her, handcuffs around her wrists, and her lithe, only mildly protesting form slung over his shoulder. They were halfway back to t the office of the GCPD which Batman most trusted to treat any criminal fairly, when the Catwoman recovered from her apparent startlement enough to question how he had known that she would be there. When he explained - flattered by her attention, by her surprise, by having finally captured him - she just laughed.

"Of COURSE I steal items with a suspect provenance, Batman dear," she teased, still over his shoulder, "People - like that lovely fraud of an airline executive - are entirely less likely to go to the authorities if their legal title to the item I repossessed is dubious. However, they are also more likely to stoop to violence in reacquiring whatever they lost, or in punishing a poor, hard-working alleged thief such as myself. That's why I donate generously to the police department."

Batman was so startled by that non sequitur, that he almost dropped her. She took advantage of the moment, kicking him in the stomach and less-than-gracefully pushing herself off of him. When he'd gotten his breath back, he saw her safely on the ground. She waved at him, grinning, and disappeared into a narrow alley. He later learned that she hadn't even lied to him. After Bruce had determined that the Catwoman was, indeed, Selina Kyle, he confirmed that she did make fairly substantial charitable contributions to the widows and orphans fund, and to scholarship funds earmarked for cops, or the children of cops. He asked her about it, later, before she knew that he was Bruce, but after they'd become...not allies, exactly, but lovers and even friends, in some sense of the word.

"It's really just straightforward opportunism, with perhaps a dollop of good taste," Selina had explained, "If the police can get nice things on their salary...its easier for them to keep to their principles. A cop who can bribed by me, can be bribed by anyone. I would rather have Commissioner Gordon command the cops' loyalty, because then I can predict what they'll do, and rely on them to catch someone who is trying to kill me. Or even give me a fair deal if it ever comes to a point when I'd rather get arrested than have to deal with someone violent who has gotten angry at me (probably for no good reason). If the cops have been bribed by someone, who knows what their priorities are? And they can be bribed again. That kind of unpredictability is just bad for business."

It was classy, and backhandedly kind and generous. It was logical but ridiculous at the same time. In a word, it was utterly Selina.

(End note: Please let me know if you enjoyed – and thanks for reading!)

7


	7. Chapter 7

Title: Inherited Traits, Learned Behaviors, and Unexpected Gifts Chapter 7

Series: Inherited Traits  
Author: Susana  
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, etc., belong to DC or USA.

Chapter Title: Nightmares and a Contest of Wills

Chapter Summary: Summary: Neal has an uneasy relationship with pain killing drugs, and Bruce lacks patience.

A/N: I had planned for Chapter Seven to be another Bruce flashback to the early days of Batman and Catwoman. However, the muse went in a different direction, and I had to re-write several times to make it work at all. Chapter Eight will hopefully be up after a shorter hiatus, and will be another Bruce-and-Selina flashback chapter.

The characters in Neal's nightmare flashbacks to his past are all original characters. I actually love the direction that the show has taken, wherein it seems likely that there are no records of Neal's existence before his 18th birthday because he and his mother were in witness protection. However I started this story before that, and it was already AU in so many ways, so Neal's childhood will be different, although I've mostly tried to tie-in at least the first and second season references to his past in some way or another.

**Chapter 7: Nightmares and a Contest of Wills **

**Quotes: **

"Not the power to remember, but its very opposite, the power to forget, is a necessary condition for our existence." - Sholem Asch

"You will find that if you really try to be a father, your child will meet you halfway." ~Robert Brault

**Chapter 7: Nightmares and a Contest of Wills **

Despite his best intentions, Neal fell asleep at some point during Bruce's story. Being miserably ill, and the medication he HAD taken, both weighed against his determination to stay awake. Neal had faithfully ingested all three of the different antibiotics he'd been prescribed, but most of the pain medication he'd been given had ended up in his sleeve, and then behind the bed.

Still, there was enough in his system to ease him into slumber, which made Neal wonder fleetingly as he fell asleep whether or not his tea might have been drugged. Whether tea or pills, it was drug enough to make him dream. Dreams which were dark and vivid and all-too-real, images of Neal's own past flashing before his unconscious mind's eye and then receding. First, he was eight year old Nicolas Laurent again, screaming in pain while masked men tortured him in a cold Eastern European cellar. Later on, the sadistic petty crime lord Anton Cervenka had looked on in approval.

Then came flashes of the first stint he'd spent under Cervenka's control. Some of those memories were better than others, but they were all blurred from the drugs, the painkillers and then cocaine, that Cervenka had used to keep his 'employees' under control. Neal saw himself learning the shell game from the aging but still limber hands of Dr. Klemens, as he tried to wait out withdrawal without showing the symptoms. Then he saw himself after his talented hands and good eye had brought him under the protection of the crooked cop Jarek Masek, which had only lasted as long as "Nikolai Masek" kept earning his place. He remembered Martina Prazka buying his freedom, after Nikolai had let Masek down and ended up back with Cervenka. He saw himself as ten year old Nikolai Prazka, painting by Martina's side, in attic garrets and public parks, and then later in private homes. Saw in his mind's eye himself sketching by lamp light while Martina and her friends plotted for a better future for their country. Then he was twelve years old, watching as Martina entered the building where she would die. Nikolai Prazka had screamed when that building exploded, and, forgetting that it was a dream, so did Neal.

Only screaming had been a really bad idea, Neal realized, as he woke up back in his bed at Wayne Manor, choking and gasping for air. The oxygen mask had fallen off while he was asleep. Neal's throat burned and his chest felt like it was splitting open. He couldn't even catch his breath enough to cough properly. Wheezing desperately, Neal reached for the inhaler he'd been prescribed, which mockingly slipped just beyond his grasp and fell to the floor. As his vision grayed out, Neal thought that this would be a really stupid way to die, which made it so that he wasn't sure whether to laugh or panic. Just as panicking won, strong arms pulled him upright. Bruce-because of course it was Bruce- helped him to use the inhaler, and replaced the oxygen mask.

To Neal's great relief, his breathing finally evened out. Inhaling still hurt, but at least he could breathe, and Neal had decided that breathing was very important. While Neal was coming to this revelation, Bruce picked him up, oxygen mask, blankets, and all, and moved him to a chair. Neal watched, bemused, as Bruce started inexpertly stripping and making up the bed with clean sheets which someone, probably Alfred although possibly Minette or Rosa, had left on the blanket chest at the foot of the bed.*

"You terrify international criminal masterminds more than anyone else on the planet," Neal whispered hoarsely, "And you can't even properly make a bed?"

"Not a requirement for terrifying criminal masterminds." Bruce replied, dead-pan, but Neal thought that he could detect some well-hidden amusement. Then Bruce frowned at the corners of the sheets, and Neal winced as he realized the probable consequences of Bruce's finally figuring out which corner went where.

Sure enough, after just a few more moments, Bruce gave Neal a dark look and tossed a handful of discarded pills and capsules in Neal's general direction. None of them actually hit Neal, which was probably a good indication that Bruce hadn't wanted them to, but still.

"Alfred wouldn't approve you throwing things at the sick." Neal pointed out primly, proud of himself for not flinching away as Bruce moved him back to the bed. Neal had only just recovered the ability to breathe, which didn't seem like a position of strength from which to argue that he could walk back to the bed under his own power.

Instead of deigning to answer, Bruce picked up bottles of pills from Neal's bedside, "These," Bruce began in a tone that implied, 'you idiot,' "are not percocets, or any other form of pain killer. They are benzonatates. Anti-tussives, or cough suppressants,"

"I know what "anti-tussive" means, Bruce." Neal interrupted, blushing.

Bruce continued as if Neal hadn't said anything, "Benzonatates work on the lungs and air passages, diminishing the cough reflex."

Neal mentally added a 'you half-wit,' to the end of that statement. Instead of admitting that he had acted like an idiotic half-wit, he just held out his hand.

Bruce poured three of the benzonatate pills into Neal's hand.

"I meant the bottle, Bruce." Neal said with a half-grin. "I may have been...less than observant about which meds I was taking, but I'm not going to double up on that lapse in judgment by just trusting that you're handing me what you say you're handing me."

He still looked annoyed, but Bruce managed a smirk and an eyeroll at that. He handed Neal the bottle, which Neal read before nodding and swallowing the benozatates, with a murmured thank-you to Bruce for handing him more juice to take them with.

"Now," Bruce began sternly, "The percocets. You WILL take them."

Neal sighed, and leaned back against his pillows, prepared for a fight. As a child, he'd spent months unwillingly addicted to painkillers and then cocaine. Bruce was detective enough, and knew enough about Neal's second stint in Anton Cervenka's custody (after Martina's death), that he'd probably figured that out.

After eyeing Neal for a long moment, Bruce got up and started fiddling with the portable I.V. stand which had been moved to the far end of the bedroom. The doctors had judged Neal to be re-hydrated enough after just a few hours on the I.V. earlier that day, but everyone in the bat family was a competent enough medic to get an intravenous fluid drip going. And the fluid could just as easily be a pain-killer as harmless saline.

Seeing that made Neal flash back to being helpless and hurting in a cellar while Dr. Klemens shot him up with something that made the pain go away for awhile. With that in mind, he said something very rude to Bruce, which started in French, moved to German, and ended in a very filthy Czech epithet.

Bruce's eyes flashed, and it looked like he wanted to say something ridiculously parental, like 'watch your language.' But then their eyes met, and although Neal looked away first, he thought that Bruce probably saw some of that cellar, and the helplessness, because Bruce sighed and offered an unexpected compromise, "I'll cut the dosage in half, Neal. But you haven't been sleeping well, if at all, without it."

"I knew that there was something in the tea..." Neal complained.

That earned him another half-smile from Bruce, but not the abandonment of the I.V. "It's up to you, Neal." Bruce said in that same firm, quiet tone he used with murderers and mad-men, only minus the growl. "You can take the percocets orally or intravenously, but you Will take them."

"No."

"We'll deal with the after effects later, whatever they are," Bruce told Neal, all the while prepping the I.V., "And I'd almost prefer intravenously, since you clearly can't be trusted to take the pills you're given. And after I heard you tell Selina that you would." Bruce paired that last accusation with a very disapproving look directed at Neal.

"You mean that I'll have to deal with the aftereffects later." Neal countered, "And besides, I told Selina that I'd TAKE the percocets. And I did. I took them into my hand. Then I deposited them behind the bed. Where someone who knew how to make a bed without fumbling wouldn't have even looked."

"Sophist." Bruce scoffed.

"Didactic pedant." Neal volleyed back, before crossing his arms, "I'm not taking pain-killers willingly, Bruce. And if you stick a needle into me without my consent, Selina will make your life miserable."

Bruce's eyes narrowed, and he snapped back, "Neal, I would not let you leave this house addicted to anything. And," with this Bruce's voice gentled, "You've resisted this particular temptation every time it was presented to you. There is no reason to think that this time would be different, particularly given the lower dosage."

"You've said it yourself, to any number of criminals you've turned in," Neal mocked lightly, "Once an addict, always an addict."

Bruce put the I.V. stand down for a moment, and leaned against the wall. For the first time, Neal saw the shadows under his vigilante father's eyes, and wondered if Bruce might have been sleeping himself when Neal's sudden inability to breathe began. "You come by your stubbornness naturally," Bruce said after a moment, " And I have faith that I will not have to arrange an intervention when your doctors take you off of the percocet."

Neal wavered, and Bruce added, "You need to rest, and to rest, you need to be comfortable enough to sleep."

With a heavy sigh, Neal caved. "Give me the pills." With his mother's charming grin, Neal added a condition,"I'll take them, but only if you keep telling me how it was that my teenaged mother kept outsmarting you." Bruce might have had all - or at least most- of the power in this situation, but no cat - and no conman- likes to give up something for nothing. Even when he's playing with a very poor hand, and burning pain in his chest and throat.

"I don't know why I should," Bruce told Neal, after offering him the pills and apple juice, "You haven't been a good patient." Bruce used the distraction cause by that statement to reach out and pinch Neal's nose, leaving his son no choice but to swallow.

"That was low," Neal objected between sips of juice, "I was going to take them."

"Mmm." Bruce commented neutrally, before beginning his story again. Neal appreciated the gesture, but even more the distraction. Bruce had been right about at least one thing. Until the percocets kicked in, Neal would be in too much pain to sleep.

(Endnote: *I've always thought that if anyone ever needed a side-kick, it's Alfred. So for the purposes of this story, I'm going to introduce some later. Minette will come with Selina when she joins Bruce's household, and Rosa comes in later.)

Please let me know if you enjoyed – and thanks for reading!

8


	8. Chapter 8

Title: Inherited Traits, Learned Behaviors, and Unexpected Gifts Chapter 8

Series: Inherited Traits  
Author: Susana  
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, etc., belong to DC or USA.

Chapter Title: **An Unpredictable Woman, Part II **

"You have a lot of rules for someone who doesn't play by them." - Peter Burke, to Neal Caffrey in Season 1 of White Collar

"Love isn't something you find. Love is something that finds you." - **Loretta Young**

Chapter 8: ** An Unpredictable Woman, Part II **

From Batman's perspective, Catwoman was a series of dichotomies wrapped in an enigma. She was a criminal, a woman who made her living - or at least a substantial portion of it - by breaking the law and taking things which belonged to other people. Yet at the same time, she played by a lot of rules.

One day of any given week, Batman might spend a frustrating night playing cat and mouse with Catwoman. To his disgust, she just as often as not got away with whatever she was carrying. Whether it was soup, or priceless art. Yet, some other day that same week, Batman would find himself perching on a Gotham city roof with Catwoman at his side, while they watched to make sure that muggers, or arms-traffickers, or a friendly neighborhood pedophile, were picked up by honest members of the the GPCD.

When asked about her conflicting behavior, Catwoman merely shrugged in that sublimely French way of hers, and gave Batman a look as if he couldn't possibly understand but it amused her that he was aspiring to comprehend. To her credit, she did try to explain.

"There are crimes that are just an offense against our common humanity, Monsieur Froid Chave-souris. Any wrongs done to children, for one. Or another, last week, when that criminal mastermind Rupert - the Joker - tried to dump nuclear or chemical waste into the common drinking water of the city."

Finding out that Selina Kyle was Catwoman was almost an anti-climax. Bruce Wayne did have to attend a few more society events over the course of that season. He always made himself a substantial presence at the charity events. Both as a tribute to his mother, and because he thought it was at least as important to fight the poverty and inequality which led to crime, as to fight the crime itself. But this season, Bruce also went to the Victory Horse Races with Gretchen Vanderhausen as his date, because he had promised Selina that he would. He was looking forward to attending that even more than he had expected...Bruce didn't really care about horses, and neither did Batman. But Selina Kyle had likewise reduced her society engagements, so the horse race was an opportunity to see Selina.

It ended up being an exciting day, and one for which Bruce would have been better dressed as Batman, which Bruce had NOT expected. He hadn't really known anything about the horse-drugging conspiracy which had been fixing the results of certain races. It wasn't the normal type of crime he investigated, at least not until it turned violent and came to Batman's attention. But when a horse had an abnormal reaction to the drug and charged Gretchen...Bruce had jumped forward to pull her out of the way of danger, bruising his shoulder and ribs badly in the process. The jockey who had been paid to fix that particular race caught sight of Bruce and Gretchen, and was going to shoot them in order to silence them, believing them to be alone. But Selina was suddenly there, coming to meet them to see a horse which Mary-Rose wanted to buy. And Selina grabbed a horse-whip from the stable wall, wrapped the whip around the twine on a bale of hay, and pulled it down upon the gun-toting jockey.

It was Catwoman's signature move in Selina's hand, and there was no way, no way, that Selina wasn't Catwoman. Bruce knew that he should report her, should begin compiling evidence in order to implicate her in her crimes so that she could be arrested. However, the day did not go as he expected. Instead of being able to disappear immediately so that he could reemerge as Batman and track down the jockey's bosses, Selina - CATWOMAN - took him to the hospital, and then home to Wayne Manor. He couldn't get away from her.

"Its my fault that you got hurt, Bruce. You were doing a favor for me, and for Mary-Rose." Selina replied, shooting down another attempt on Bruce's part to thank her and part company with her.

"Really, Selina dear, I'm fine," Bruce leered, pretending that the pain medications were enough to make him lose control of his already reputedly nonexistent inhibitions.

Selina just raised an eyebrow, "Of COURSE you are, Bruce darling. But the nice doctor said that your ribs are badly bruised, and I know how much that hurts."

"Oh?" Bruce said, trying to keep his tone salacious when he was in fact deeply interested. "Do you ride? You look...very athletic," he leered at her again, "Although a bit too chesty for a proper equestrienne."

Selina just laughed.

Bruce tried again, pulling on his I-can-be-a-businessman-and-a-semi-decent-human-being-sometimes act, "But you really can just drop me off at Wayne Enterprises. Its much closer than Wayne Manor, and I don't want to keep you away from whatever it is that you do."

She chuckled, and her blue-violet eyes surveyed him with wry amusement from under her dark, thick eyelashes. "The business which I had in Gotham has more or less wrapped up. So I'm free to drive you home and make sure that you don't suffer any lasting damage on my account. Ladies of...judgment and discernment...the world over would cry, if they were to lose your company."

Bruce put his hand over the healed cat claw scratches on his shoulder, and just sighed.

Alfred and Selina were, of course, mutually fascinated by one another. Alfred weighed in on Bruce's injuries, and Bruce lost A WHOLE DAY that he could have spent chasing the horse-drugging crime ring.

When Selina FINALLY left, Bruce told Alfred, keeping his voice as level as possible, "She's Catwoman.

Alfred did not seem to take this news with the gravity which was its due. All he said was, "What a terrible shame, Master Bruce. How fortunate that she is young, much like yourself, and has plenty of time to make better choices."

Not long after Bruce learned for certain that Selina was Catwoman, one of Superman's enemies (and just how did a man so genially wholesome that he made sugar look sour make so many enemies, anyway?) decided to hire an army of mercenaries and meta-monsters. His fool-proof plan was that, if he were able to take over Gotham, then he would have a base of power from which to attack Metropolis. And after that, the world. No surprise there. The villain was far from a paragon of intelligence, but Batman supposed that he didn't have to be to fight Clark Kent.

And obviously, this fool of a so-called supervillain knew nothing about Gotham. In Bruce's city, it wasn't just Batman and the police helping Superman to contain and counter the threat. To the surprise of Bruce's superpowered sometimes associates, everyone from hotdog vendors to businessmen were pitching in. And of course, of course, Selina showed up. Batman was only surprised that she quickly disappeared after knocking a few mercenaries into the river. He was glad, of course, that she was keeping her pretty little whiskers out of it. Selina was an amateur, and it was going to get her killed someday. Bruce was also worried that she might have gotten hurt, since leaving this type of scene was...out of character for her. She was unpredictable, yes, but she was predictably unpredictable, at least about some types of things. And Batman would have laid money down that this was one of them.

But he didn't have much time to think of Selina. One of the bad guys had been in some kind of lab incident involving kryptonite. That spelled bad news for Superman, who was ALSO an amateur. Bruce got his bell rung distracting the brute, and when he came to (in Wonder Woman's lap, of all place, humiliatingly enough), he had to shake his head, unable to believe what his eyes were showing him.

Poison Ivy was mustering a group of greened mercenaries to attack the invading metas. Two-Face and his henchmen were providing cover fire for a cautious-but-game Flash. Even the Joker was in on the action, throwing exploding cards at the Meta who had just knocked out Batman whilst screaming that "Batsie" was HIS nemesis.

Behind all of this, Batman learned later, was Selina. Bold as brass, Gotham's premiere cat burglar just walked up to the superheros, carrying a few drink trays of excellent coffee.

Bruce just grunted, and took a cup. Coffee was a weakness of his, and there was no point trying to send Selina away. Like a cat, she wouldn't go until she wanted to.

Diana stared at her incredulously. The rest of the villains had disappeared as soon as the tide turned, understandably concerned that the police might take the opportunity to collect them, too. Selina just winked and smiled, because there were no outstanding warrants for HER arrest. Still, it was known within the superhero community that she was a criminal.

Flash just raised an amused eyebrow, which made Bruce wonder what the heck it was that Barry Allen did in his city, since he didn't even blink at one of Bruce's villains showing up at a superhero pow-wow with nothing but coffee and a saucy smile.

Clark did blink, but like the gentleman and the idiot he was, he leaned forward to shake Selina's hand and accept a coffee with a murmured, "Thank you, Ma'am. That's mighty kind of you." Bruce was pretty sure that Selina had taken that opportunity to steal Superman's wallet, but that wasn't Batman's problem. After all, it was the Man of Steel's villain who had come to BRUCE's city and made a mess. Part of Bruce hoped that Selina had also taken the opportunity to leave something foul IN Clark's belt. Maybe some of poison ivy leaves which Pamela Isley had trailed in her wake.

That thought, and his reluctant fondness for Selina, led Batman to do something he'd never done before in front of his superhero "friends." His lips twitched into a reluctant half-grin. While the others gaped, Selina smiled back. Her smile was sweet and sexy and somehow safe and warm, like the scent of warm vanilla and sweet cinnamon on a cold winter morning.

"So," Bruce said disapprovingly, in an attempt to put his game face back on, "Was this one of your "things?"

Selina laughed. "This was one of everyone's "bad things." The end of the world, major destruction to our city...that's just bad for everyone's business. Or, for that matter, bad for anyone who appreciates an apocalypse free existence."

Chuckling, the Flash asked, "So what did you say to get the Joker to help? I didn't think that he was even aware of what century it is, or that he'd care if the apocalypse came." Bruce was glad that Barry had asked. Bruce had wanted to, but he preferred to appear as if he knew everything, even if he didn't. If it was important, he knew that it could figure it out. And he didn't like to give Selina the satisfaction.

Selina sipped her coffee and smiled again, "Oh, our Rupert may be a few french fries short of a happy meal, but he's quite the jealous crime boyfriend." Then she winked at Batman, who just glared back at her. That look had reduced hardened murderers to whimpering and pleading. It just made Selina grin. Which was insult to injury, really, since Bruce didn't know what the Joker's real name had been, but he knew that it WASN'T Rupert. But he couldn't ask. It would make him look weak, or worse, interested in her opinion.

Instead of savoring her victory, Selina put her coffee down (into Clark's hand, Bruce noted with annoyance), and came to stand beside him. He determinedly ignored her, even when she gently probed his left shoulder, the shoulder that had taken the brunt of his fall.

"You need a doctor." She told him quietly. He was pretty sure that only Clark heard.

Meanwhile, Wonder Woman entered the conversation. She still seemed to be incredulous at the presence of Selina. Disapprovingly, she asked Selina, "So, do your noble actions today mean that you are ready to give up your life of crime? It is no life for a young woman, and as you grow and mature surely you will realize that."

Selina gave Batman an "is she for real?" look. As a rule, Bruce didn't encourage Selina. But he could help but nod, a sardonic smile curling its way onto his features.

Selina's pretty violet-blue eyes widened, and she turned back to Diana, a surprisingly serious expression upon her beautiful face. She gestured to the scene before them, and then the scores on her cat suit from where she'd fallen or failed to dodge fire quickly enough. "If I keep this up, I honestly doubt that I'm going to live to be twenty-five," she told Diana seriously. Gesturing towards Batman, she unnecessarily added, "And it will be a miracle if he does. So I sincerely doubt that we'll have a chance to worry about whether or not running around in a costume on rooftops is a valid career choice as we age. There's no such thing as middle-aged super-anythings. At least not in the human game."

It was a true statement, so far as it went. As of that time, no human superhero had stayed in the game into their late thirties, let alone their fifties. Batman was too young to think himself mortal, however, and he had a job to do. So it annoyed him greatly that, after Selina made her little speech, his super-hero 'friends' made a point of watching out for him. Bruce had to spend a lot of time and effort being exceptionally taciturn, forbidding, abrupt, and harsh in order to discourage them, and Clark STILL didn't entirely get it. Batman might not be immortal or meta, but he wasn't a weakling. Worse, Alfred seemed GRATEFUL to Clark, and gave him cookies and tea when he showed up after a fierce-fought struggle to check on Bruce. Idiotic boyscout. Infuriating cat.

He hated to admit that Selina might have been right. If he'd continued to fight into his thirties the way he had in his twenties, he would have probably died. But along had come Dick, and then the others. In teaching them and keeping them as safe as possible, he'd learned how to adjust his own style to fight more wisely, more carefully. As time went by, he saw again and again that it was his mind more than than his body which made him effective. But at that point in time, he'd resented Selina for her judgement, her intrusion into his Crusade, which was none of her business.

And he might have taken that resentment out on her, in their next confrontation. She was in the process of stealing a fabulously expensive pair of canary diamond earrings. He managed to snatch them back, but she kissed him, distracting him before he could handcuff her. He accused her of being a common whore. The flash of hurt in her eyes wounded him to the core, and he kicked himself for caring at the same time that he decided to only chase her half-heartedly as she fled that night.

After that, he didn't see Selina for over a week. When he did see her again, she was in over her pretty head with a pair of drug dealers who had been smuggling cocaine inside antique Chinese vases. He later learned that Catwoman hadn't been trying to steal the vases. Well, at least, not really. She hadn't been opposed to stealing them if the opportunity had arisen, but mostly she was just offended that anyone would use something so beautiful as an inanimate drug mule. She was an unpredictable woman.

Bullets flew and richocheted off of the walls of that cheap warehouse that night, breaking some of the vases and not-quite-missing Selina, leaving a bloody gash on her upper arm. Batman found himself unaccountably angered by that. He quickly finished off the drug dealers. The police were called, and he found himself tending to the bleeding wound on Selina's arm. He was a little that Selina hadn't been shooting back at the drugdealers, even after she'd used her whip to make one of them drop his gun. She was normally willing to take advantage of any opportunity the environment gave her.

"I've never been that sure that I want to kill anyone." Selina told him, when he showed a momentary weakness and asked. "My parents were shot to death."

"Mine too." He shocked himself by admitting.

Her eyes flickered to him, sympathy or perhaps a feeling of kinship leading her to confess, "I almost killed a man, once. I think that I would have, if I'd had a gun. He'd been one of the hired guns who killed my parents."

Batman himself meant never to kill, but if he ever found the man who'd shot his parents...

Her lips tightened as he applied the antiseptic, and she volunteered, "Killing him would have been the wrong decision. Not only was he working for the man who gave ordered my parents' deaths only to protect his family, but killing him would have meant that I never found out who had ordered them slain."

"I'm sorry." He said, and it was wholly inadequate. But there was nothing to say.

She gave him a quiet nod, one completely empty of her normal joyous coquetry. "I've always been glad that I didn't have a gun that night."

He was quiet when he got home that night. Even more quiet than normal, apparently, since Alfred asked him about it. Bruce was unsettled enough that he shared everything, only to receive his second shock of the evening.

"You sound like you don't approve." He accused Alfred. In Bruce's mind, there were many things to disapprove of when it came to Selina, most of all that she was a thief. Alfred didn't seem to view that as a terrible flaw, and yet this upset him?

"A young lady in your 'nighttime world,' Master Bruce," Alfred explained, his tone faintly worried and disaproving, "Should have the means to defend herself."

Bruce paused, "YOU would never shoot someone, would you, Alfred?"

Alfred was silent a heartbeat too long. "Let us just say that it will be best if you do not get yourself killed in the course of your nightly activities, Master Bruce. Then you will never have to find out the answer to your question." He said at last. It was a terrifying answer, and it left Bruce both troubled by the extremes that Alfred would go to on his behalf, and somewhat touched. Or at least he would later realize that at least a small part of him had been amazed and pleased by how much his former guardian cared for him. It was the same part of Bruce that later came within a hair's breadth of killing the Joker, and that madman killed his son Jason. But at that time, it was odd for Bruce to have to worry about what Alfred might do in the event of his death more than he worried about what Catwoman might do in the course of her criminal activities.

After that night, Batman had a hard time looking at Selina...Catwoman... the same way. He didn't realize it at the time, but he was lonely. Alfred was the only person who knew about Batman, and Alfred never lost his aura of faint disapproval when Bruce discussed the Crusade with him. Selina didn't get the Crusade anymore than Alfred did (nor did Bruce try to explain it to her), but she was a fellow creature of the night. The first whom he could really talk to. And he did, on slow nights. He surprised and appalled himself by how much he was willing to tell her. When the President requested that Batman join the other U.S. superheroes in unraveling a terrorist plot to invade California, Bruce actively missed his conversations with his feline adversary. That, and the other superheroes drove him crazy. Selina wasn't much better at strategizing than they were, but at least she didn't try to pretend that "full-out attack with no back up plan" WAS a strategy.

Bruce didn't understand. Despite being naive and thinking the best of everyone, Superman wasn't really an idiot. There was too much intelligence in those guileless blue eyes for that, as Bruce found himself complaining to Selina in frustration.

Selina laughed. Selina laughed a lot, but almost always as if she was laughing with him rather than at him.

Bruce couldn't help responding with a wry half-smile. "They want me to form some sort of an...allegiance with them, a league of some kind, like the old League of super heroes during the Great War."

"Maybe you should." Selina said, and she was serious. Or at least only half-teasing, which for her was pretty serious. "Every time you work with them, you come back frustrated and angry. If you were involved from the get go, you could work with them, keep them from doing stupid things in the future when they are faced with world wide crises."

Bruce gnashed his teeth.

Selina laughed again, and this time she was laughing at him, as she teased, "Well, at least you could come up with a better plan for keeping them out of your city."

Bruce grunted, but he did think about what she'd said. At least until the next time they met up, when she was helping the Riddler to get away from him. The Riddler's current spree hadn't resulted in any deaths, but it had caused a great deal of embarrassment for several high-ranking citizens and business interests. Batman and Catwoman had a very loud and vituperative argument about it, which ended so badly that neither of them wanted to acknowledge the other at the following night's charity function.

But they ended up having to work together that night. Someone had put an interesting chemical mix into the sparkling champagne which was provided for the opening toast of the evening. Some of the partygoers took their clothes off and initiated sexual relations with other party goers. That, while essentially mass date rape, wasn't as worrying as those ten percent of partygoers who suddenly became violent. Unfortunately, the entree that evening was steak, and so Bruce found himself combating steak-knife wielding socialites.

With Selina beside him. They took turns covering one another to change into costume. Then, when a truckload of robbers came to steal valuables from the non-compos-mentis guests, Batman disarmed them and wrapped them up for the police. Catwoman recognized them as employees of Two-Face, and slipped off to talk to "Harvey."

They met later that night, on a roof near Selina's apartment. Two-Face hadn't known who hired him to rob the party, or who had drugged the champagne. He was mildly insulted, since he didn't think robbing the drugged and defenceless was macho enough for Two-Face, and of course it was despicable in Dent's opinion. Either way, Two-Face was not happy with the evening, and Selina had apparently made him even less happy about it, without any intervention from Bruce.

They ended up back at Selina's apartment after that. Most of the attendees at the party were at the hospital, being monitored. Batman and Catwoman had imbibed less of the champagne than most of their fellows, but Bruce could tell later, in retrospect, that his judgment had been very much impaired, when he made the decision to go back to her apartment with her.

It was strange to be in her apartment, her home. It was an impersonal pre-furnished space, but she'd added little touches of her own. Nothing stolen, at least not that he could see easily. But there were colorful throw rugs, prints of famous paintings, and real paintings in complimentary styles from artists whom Bruce coudln't even recognize.

But they didn't spend a lot of time in Selina's living room. They moved very quickly to her bedroom, him carrying her because it was faster that way. She took off her mask, and he didn't even think anything of it at the time. He didn't manage to think at all until the next morning, waking up in her sun-drenched bedroom on sheets of a soft pale lilac. Her naked body was beside him, and she was even more beautiful when she slept. But her eyes fluttered open when he stirred, the violet of the sheets highlighting the violet in her blue eyes. He could tell that she was a bit taken aback, too, trying to remember the night before. But much like a cat, she acted like nothing was wrong, like a passionate night spent with him had been exactly how she'd meant to end the evening.

"Good morning, handsome." She purred, not even caring that she wasn't wearing her mask.

He was still wearing his, and he immediately began searching for hers. She waved him off, "It's more than a little late for my mask. You knew who I was, even before I took it off. I knew that you did when you had your police contacts pull my charitable donation records."

Feeling as if the world was spinning around him, Bruce didn't even respond to that. He was in her room. There was a large desk with a laptop computer, a Chinese water color of a cat fishing in a koi pond, and an antique armoire. She evidently liked classical music, the more dramatic the better. All of these things about her, that he shouldn't be seeing. That he wanted to see, but felt like he was cheating. On her privacy, and his Mission. So he just grunted in answer, and began focusing on the Mission.

"Since it wasn't Two-Face drugging the champagne last night, who was it? And did they intend that effect? The only people I saw leaving the party so early were Marston Fisher's personal physician Dr. Kendrick, and Natalie Peters."

Selina sat up with a yawn. "Well, Natalie Peters is pregnant, and she's been leaving anywhere with food on a fairly frequent basis. The smells upset her stomach, and she's been complaining that she also has to pee every hour, on the hour." Selina yawned again, and began stretching. "Dr. Kendrick, on the other hand, shouldn't have been there at all. Marston Fisher fired Dr. Kendrick weeks ago. It couldn't be legally proven, but I was sure that he was poisoning Marston. I told Mary-Rose, who told Marston's housekeeper, who had Kendrick replaced with a young, attractive female doctor. Marston's health starting improving immediately. Do you think that he would have..."

But Batman was already gone. That was more than motive enough for Calvin Kendrick to have poisoned an entire ballroom full of Gotham elites. And Calvin had an uncle in the illegal drug trade, and a cousin who was a chemist. Wrapping that case up kept Batman busy for several weeks. It turned out that Marston wasn't Kendrick's first victim, and some of them were from other states and countries. So the FBI was pulled in, and Interpol, and between one thing and another, it was over a month before Batman thought to check on Selina. Who had been curiously absent from both Gotham's rooftops and high society for several weeks. Mary-Rose Kane told Bruce that Selina had come down with a flu she just couldn't shake, and had decided to leave for somewhere warmer for awhile, to recover.

Bruce tried to get in touch with her, or rather Batman did. He cared about her, wanted to make sure that she was being treated by good doctors, that she was ok. But he became so busy that he forgot.

There was an awkward pause at that point in Bruce's story.

Neal raised an eyebrow, "Ah. Enter Nicolas aka Neal, stage far right. Batman continues to pummel criminals and foil terrorists with innocent aplomb, center ring."

"Neal," Bruce began, with tired frustration, "It wasn't like that, exactly. I didn't know. And..."

Fortunately, at that point, Neal's other concealed cell phone, the one hidden within a false compartment in the bed frame, began to ring. Neal gave Bruce an innocent look, and picked it up to answer. Bruce glared at Neal and the phone, and Neal desperately hoped that it wasn't Mozzie again.

12


	9. Chapter 9

Title: Inherited Traits, Learned Behaviors, and Unexpected Gifts Chapter 9

Series: Inherited Traits  
Author: Susana  
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, etc., belong to DC or USA.

**Chapter 9: A call with Cassandra and Reflections on Parenthood **

Chapter Summary: A call from Cassandra lightens an awkward moment. Then Bruce explains some of the events which had been going on in his life, around the time when Selina had left Gotham to give birth to Neal.

Quote:

"Black cat or white cat: If it can catch mice, it's a good cat." – Chinese Proverb

_She__ (Cassandra Cain) grew up surrounded by violence and brutality. And all I've done is__ to surround her with violence again. __ - Batman_

_His parents-circus acrobats-had been murdered. And I... wanted to make a difference in his life...__ - Batman _

Excerpt from Chapter 8:

_"Neal raised an eyebrow, "Ah. Enter Nicolas aka Neal, stage far right. Batman continues to pummel criminals and foil terrorists with innocent aplomb, center ring."_

_"Neal," Bruce began, with tired frustration, "It wasn't like that, exactly. I didn't know. And..."_

_Fortunately, at that point, Neal's other concealed cell phone, the one hidden within a false compartment in the bed frame, began to ring. Neal gave Bruce an innocent look, and picked it up to answer. Bruce glared at Neal and the phone, and Neal desperately hoped that it wasn't Mozzie again."_

**Chapter 9: **

"Hi, Cat." Said a soft, accented voice. Neal breathed a sigh of relief, and hit the speaker button.

"Hi Cass." Neal replied, just as quietly. Cassandra's hearing was incredible, so he didn't need to strain his voice.

"Say 'Hi,' Bruce." Neal instructed, wanting Bruce's only adopted daughter to know that he was listening. There were few philosophies which all of Bruce's children shared. One of them was, "Thou shalt not leave thy siblings in ignorance of the fact that The Batman is listening."

"Cassandra." Bruce's voice held an actual note of warmth, and he'd stopped giving Neal dirty looks. Neal spared another moment to be thankful that the caller was Cassandra. Bruce had what was for him a remarkable amount of patience for his only daughter. He missed her when she was away, all the more so since she wasn't particularly fond of phone or even video chat conversations.

"Father." Cassandra replied, and her voice was warm. "Tim said...Neal is sick? ... Said THAT Neal is sick." She corrected herself.

"He'll be well soon." Bruce, his tone implying that Neal had better not stay sick for long.

"Good." That was relieved, but Cassie's tone turned to teasing as she continued, "Bad cat. Not go back to New York."

Neal laughed, then coughed. "Will too." He countered breathily, "I have a deposition on Tuesday."

"Hmm." Bruce interjected. "Cassandra, what happened last night? The suspected arson."

"Told you."

"Your text message was short on details. Report."

"The great detective doesn't like to have to color in the blanks himself." Neal put in wryly. There might have been a bit of bitterness, in the quip. Probably there was, since both Cassandra and Bruce paused. Bruce gave Neal a considering look, then told Cassie, "You'll wrap this one up tomorrow."

"Yes. Think so." Cassandra agreed, pleased with herself.

Bruce nodded, satisfied. Neal thought about pointing out that Cassandra couldn't hear the nod over the phone, but being Cassandra, perhaps she could. "I'll have Dick pick you up the day after." Bruce stated.

A pause.

"What a fun trip that will be." Neal quipped. He couldn't help himself. Normally, he wouldn't have made fun of the awkwardness which persisted between Cassie and Dick, because he liked both of them and they were still hurting.

The relationship between Dick and Cassandra had improved, but there was still a lingering tension between the two stemming from the lack of trust each thought the other had displayed during the year Bruce had been believed dead. Cassandra had, in truth, been obeying some directive from Bruce. Dick had been trying his best to keep everything together, and so far as he was concerned, Cassandra hadn't helped.

So far as Neal could tell, Bruce's strategy of trying to fix that problem by throwing his oldest son and his only daughter together as much as possible, wasn't helping either. The pater familias of the Bat family seemed to think that both of his children were behaving ridiculously. Dick more so than Cassandra only because, so far as Neal could tell, Dick was older and Bruce had higher expectations for him. Or maybe because Dick was Bruce's strategic and tactical deputy, and Bruce thought that he should have known what Bruce would have asked Cassandra to do. Really, Neal thought, 'knowing what Bruce would do,' should have been what Bruce expected of TIM, not Dick, but no one had asked Neal. And if he weren't upset with Bruce just now for having 'not noticed' that Selina was pregnant twenty some years ago, Neal would never have made that quip. Possibly upsetting Cassandra had just been unfortunate accidental casualty of Neal's irritation with Bruce.

Cassandra seemed to get that, but Neal still felt like a jerk.

"Dick does not have to." Cassandra said carefully, "I can fly. By myself."

"Dick will be happy to pick you up." Bruce repeated. He did not, as a rule, repeat himself more than once. And Cassandra would be the least likely of his children to push him to that extreme.

"OK." Pause. "Bring Barbara?" Cassie asked hopefully.

"Of course." Bruce agreed with good cheer, as if he couldn't think of anything which would be more fun for Dick than having his wife and his sister, both of whom were annoyed at Dick for BEING annoyed with his sister, on the same plane with him for a trip to and from Hong Kong.

"You and Barbara should take Dick shopping." Bruce added heartlessly.

Neal would have warned Dick, but...he owed Cassandra for having brought the whole issue up. So he decided that he wouldn't.

After a few more pleasantries and get-well wishes, Bruce wished his daughter good luck and good hunting.

"And I wish you a night free of unquiet spirits seeking to destroy your arsonist." Neal offered.

Cassandra laughed. "No more of that. Not since you put artifact back."

Bruce frowned, slightly confused but not wanting to show it. "And when was that?"

"One of my first trips to China, before we met." Neal explained.

"Cat helped me catch spirit. No more killer demon ghosts." Cassandra explained with satisfaction. "Good trip."

Bruce raised a skeptical eyebrow, "I'm sure. The two of you can explain it in more depth over Thanksgiving."

Neal huffed a laugh. After all, who didn't like a nice story about homicidal demon ghosts over turkey?

Cassandra hung up with a fond, "Bye, Cat. Bye, Father." Which left Neal in the uncomfortable situation of once again becoming the sole object of Bruce's attention.

"This is your last chance to give me all of your means of communication with the outside world, before I tell both Peter and your Mother about the two weeks you spent on the Burmese government's most wanted list." Bruce said, regarding Neal with faint disapproval.

"How do you know that I didn't already tell them?" Neal asked confidently, raising one eyebrow.

Bruce just looked at him.

Neal sighed. "I don't have any other phones. That was the last." He hadn't already told them. He thought that Peter might suspect some of it, but to the best of his knowledge Selina was blissfully unaware. Neal wanted to keep it that way.

Bruce searched Neal's blue-violet eyes. After a few moments, he nodded.

"Neal," Bruce began, "I...I don't know what to say to you, about...not having figured out that Selina was pregnant with my child, and that my child was you."

Neal sighed, and looked over at the window. "You were both under the influence of that drug, that night. Selina made decisions that I understand, and you had no reason to look at them more deeply. I understand."

Bruce sighed again, "It wasn't just that I became busy, after Selina left, pregnant with you. I did worry about her. If there hadn't been an attempted political assassination the week she disappeared, I might have gone after her, to make sure that she was fine. I would have found her, and I don't know what decisions would have been made, but I would have looked out for you. As I know she did her best to do.

"She did." Neal agreed, squaring his shoulders and looking Bruce straight in the eye, "I don't blame Selina for losing track of me. I don't really blame you- you didn't have anything to do with me, beyond that one night."

"That one night was enough." Bruce said firmly, "You are my son, which means that I have everything to do with you. As with Dick, as with Tim and Cassandra, and - perhaps more aptly - as with Damian."

Neal shrugged. "You had no responsibility to me. I place no responsibility for me, on you. Right now, I'm here, with your doctors, because Selina wants me to be here. But I could be back in a hospital in New York, on the FBI's dime, at any time. I don't mind that." In some ways, it would even be easier for Neal.

Bruce's expression roughly corresponded to, 'fat chance, kid.' Neal shrugged, and didn't press the issue. He just leaned back in bed and tried to relax.

Bruce picked up his story where he had left it off, before Cassandra's call.

"I did worry about Selina," Bruce continued, soft and nostalgic, "But there was the attempted assassination, then an uptick in drug running, an escape by the Joker, and then..." He paused, his face showing the strains of that time, "then there was the mess with Tony Zucco."

"Oh." Neal said softly, "When Dick's parents died. When you took him in."

Bruce nodded. "It was the hardest challenge that I've ever faced. I didn't mean to adopt the boy, not at first. I didn't know anything about eight year old children, let alone world-famous child circus acrobats. But I couldn't let the boy go into the system. More," Bruce paused, trying to describe to the child he hadn't know about how come he had, at the same time Selina was giving Neal up for adoption, been learning how to be a parent, or at least trying, "More, I saw himself in Dick, and I couldn't let the boy go through this horror, alone."

Bruce's lips twisted in a wry half smile, "Alfred was almost as horrified by my bringing home Dick, as he had been by me getting shot (before I put enough kevlar in my uniform to keep that from being a serious problem). But time passed, and Dick discovered my secret, and then...Dick became something I had never expected. Something Batman had never expected."

"Your lieutenant, your partner in un-crime." Neal offered, less sarcastically than usual.

"Hmmph. Yes, something like that." Bruce agreed, giving Neal a half-amused, half-irritated look. Neal got that look a lot from Bruce. He'd feel bad about that, except that Dick got that look sometimes too, as did Tim. And even sometimes Damian, although some of the looks Bruce gave Damian, Neal would do almost anything to avoid being on the receiving end of.

"Dick," continued Bruce gravely, "became more than just an ally. He was my protege, my apprentice and even my faith. With Dick, I began to understand why knights would take on squires. You have to have someone to teach your code to, someone with innocence and intelligence,someone who believes. Someone who can bring in a fresh perspective, and someone whose future success in their career as a knight rests on whether you come home safely, whether you survive long enough to teach them well. If you don't have a squire, then you're just a knight errant, fighting through the wild. You'll die, soon enough, living like that. And the only legacy you'd leave is a few people you helped, a few bad things you stopped. A knight and his squire...can do more." Bruce shook his head, "And, just as important if not more so, especially to Alfred, was that we both came to love Dick, beyond Robin."

Bruce heaved a heavy sigh, "I feared for Dick, every time Robin was out. Having him, having this boy whom I loved as a younger brother or a son and sometimes both at the same time, it made the good times of being Batman and Bruce much sweeter, and the harder, more frightening moments exponentially more frightening. Sometimes, I would want to fire Dick, and have him just as my ward. But Dick wouldn't let me, and I didn't really want to go back to the bad old days, anyway."

Neal was rather in awe. This was a lot of sharing, for Bruce. Neal wondered if the Batman might be drugged, or something. But he definitely wanted Bruce to keep going.

Unfortunately, Bruce's cell phone rang.

"Oh, so YOU get to take phone calls?" Neal complained, as Bruce picked it up.

7


	10. Chapter 10

Title: Inherited Traits, Learned Behaviors, and Unexpected Gifts Chapter 9

Series: Inherited Traits  
Author: Susana  
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, etc., belong to DC or USA.

**Chapter 10: An Unpredictable Woman, Part II **

Chapter Summary: Bruce gets a phone call, then continues his story.

Quotes:

_I hate Metropolis. It's an art deco nightmare. All bright lights and rounded corners._

-Bruce Wayne (New Earth)

Excerpt from Chapter 9:

"Bruce's cell phone rang.

"Oh, so YOU get to take phone calls?" Neal complained, as Bruce picked it up.

Chapter 10:

Bruce gave Neal a look, but seemed almost more annoyed with the phone call. With Bruce, it could be hard to tell.

"What is it, Clark?" Yes, Bruce was definitely more irritated with the man of steel than he was with Neal. Fancy that.

Bruce grunted. "Can't you figure it out by yourself?" There was a pause, and then Bruce sighed. "Explain. Start from the beginning, Clark. No, what you had for dinner tonight is not relevant."

A longer pause. "Lois is right." Bruce said, while Neal hid a smile.

Another pause. "No, Clark. I am not saying that just to exact a petty revenge up on you for calling me in the middle of the night in hopes that I would disagree with your wife, thus keeping you out of trouble and her out of a high-security building."

Pause. Another grunt from Bruce, and then an exasperated, "Then go with her, Smallville." After another moment, Bruce continued sarcastically, "No, Clark, I do not think that breaking-and-entering into the records room of a multinational corporation funded by one of Lexcorp's spun-off sweatshops really counts as a crime." A pause, and then a growled, "She has not."

Bruce's expression had gone from piqued to angry (Neal could tell b/c of a small tic on the left side of his face). But his father's eyes softened slightly after a longer pause. "No, Neal isn't out of the woods, but he's doing much better." Another sigh, and then a resigned, "Yes, he is probably well enough to give Lois lock-picking advice, since your blundering has turned this into an emergency."

Neal accepted the phone with a gripe. "Oh, I get to do this, but my own social and business calls are out of the question?"

"If you can't get them into the building in two minutes, then I'll tell Peter that the story about base-jumping onto Wallstreet is true."

His blue-violet eyes widening, Neal complied without further hesitation. Lois proved a quick study, so Neal was off the phone in a minute thirty.

"What was that all about?" Neal asked, "I don't really think that she even needed my help."

The corner of Bruce's lip quirked into what might have been a smile. "They might have just wanted to say hi, and see how you were doing."

Neal gave his father an incredulous look.

Bruce didn't seem to want to expand on that, but he gave in after a moment. "Selina and Lois are still in some kind of bizarrely polite girl-fight, over Lois publishing that story about you and Selina."

"Oh."

"Yes, oh." Bruce mocked lightly, the same almost-smile flickering over his face. "Lois would normally just have called, but if Selina had been here, she might have taken exception. Clark might really have called because he was hoping that Lois was wrong on this hunch, and didn't want her to be off committing crimes tonight in the name of truth, justice, and getting the good story."

"Mom has some funny stories about the early JLA..." Neal prompted.

Bruce snorted, and began his story again.

"I had entirely intended to search for your mother once things settled down with Dick. But then the world was invaded by sentient alien spiders."

"How often does that happen?" Neal asked jokingly, "Every other Tuesday?"

"Only during leap years." Bruce said, deadpan. "In any case, Batman had to deal with that, as well as a nine year old who didn't appreciate being side-lined just because his mentor and guardian had to go save the world."

"No one asked for my opinion." Neal commented quietly, "But I've always thought that nine years old was entirely too young to be off saving the world."

"You're right." Bruce said levelly, "No one asked for your opinion."

"No, you were right, Bruce." Neal replied, almost as calmly. "You really weren't ready to be a father when I was born."

There was a moment of silence as blue-violet eyes clashed with blue-black.

"I'm sorry." Bruce said stiffly, "I was out of line. There are reasons that Dick and I spent several years mostly not speaking to one another, and most of those were my fault." Bruce hesitated while Neal's jaw dropped. Bruce didn't apologize, or at least not that Neal had ever heard.

"Dick might have mentioned that, actually." Neal murmured unthinkingly.

"Oh, he did, did he?" Bruce muttered, before continuing with his story. Neal relaxed against his pillows,figuring that the apology must have been an early Thanksgiving miracle. And feeling a little bad about selling Dick down the river.

[Bruce POV Flashback]

Between one thing and another, Batman hadn't had an opportunity to track down Selina Kyle, as he'd meant to. So he was relieved when she reappeared, even though at the time she was trying to steal a priceless artifact that had been entrusted to the new Justice League. But then she happened to appear just as the metal spiders revealed that they had a core of kryponite. Selina decided that helping them out was more important than stealing the diamond scepter. She never was a predictable woman.

After the spiders had been defeated and order restored, Catwoman suddenly appeared on the roof of Lexcorp beside him. (Bruce was suspicious of the alien spiders having cores of kryptonite. That, and he liked making Lex Luthor nervous). But despite his dedication to the mission, he was happy enough to see Selina that he couldn't suppress a neutral nod.

She grinned. She had two ice cream cones in her hand, vanilla and chocolate. He noticed that she'd gained a few pounds, become even more curvy. It looked good on her.

"Did you steal them?" He asked.

Selina laughed throatily. "No, you handsome, paranoid, thing, you. I try not to steal from food vendors. It's declasse unless one has no money with which to pay for food, in which case..." Selina shrugged. "But fortunately, even after having to let go of those beautiful diamonds for the good of the world and all of that, I'm not so desperate." She solemnly handed Bruce the vanilla ice cream cone. "Here. You look like this is your flavor."

It was, but the way she said it, it was almost insulting. "What's wrong with vanilla?" Bruce asked, even as he accepted the icecream. "It's subtle."

Selina laughed brightly. Then she started licking her chocolate ice cream cone in a way that did unacceptable things to Bruce's body. "Well, subtle you're not, tall, dark and handsome. And being so clever and forceful may even save you from being bland. I loved how you wrangled those other heroes, and how you didn't tell them anything about what was going on until you absolutely had to."

Bruce didn't know what to say to that. Selina wrinkled her nose in almost a cute way. It took him by surprise. She was always sexy, but he'd never before seen her as cute. It made him...well, it made him want all sorts of things that he could never have. Not just another night of passion, but Saturday afternoons watching old movies, or walking on the ocean-side cliff trail at Wayne manor, maybe with Dick turning somersaults in front of them. Things that could never be. Not as long as she was an unrepentant thief. Not as long as he was the Night, wearing a Bruce Wayne shell when he had to..."

That line of thought was broken off by Selina's next question

"Why are you hanging out with those putzes?" Selina asked. "The other superheroes, I mean?"

"It's all your fault." Batman growled.

Selina blinked. "That's even more of a non-sequitur than your usual, "drop the diamonds."

Bruce glared at her. "You - and your - 'I know what's going on because I sit down and chat with people, even annoying people, you should try it sometime,' and then, "well, if you don't like them popping up here in Gotham unexpectedly - and honestly, who does, they always muck about and cause a huge mess - then why don't you just join their little crime-fighter and superhero playgroup? They seem to need a leader. Or a den mother. Or something."

Selina blinked again. "Wow. You're not a bad mimic. I'd never have guessed. My voice isn't that high, though. And I don't nag...I purr. Your new friends nag, though."

"They're heroes." Bruce countered.

"They're rubes." Selina said.

Batman snorted. "We're Gothamites. To us, everyone is a rube. Even Parisians."

"Tres bien, mon cher Chevalier Noir." Selina teased in a perfect French accent, fluttering her eyelashes.

"Paris isn't really where you started though, Selina." Batman guessed.

"Of course not." Selina agreed equably, "But I don't tell men more than that on the first date."

"This isn't a date."

"Of course not. You didn't pay for my icecream, the big blue boyscout did." Selina pointed out with a mischievous smile.

Bruce sighed. Really, what had he expected?

"It was the least he could do, after allowing himself to get tied up, and making me have to deal with the bad guys. What good are superpowers if he rushes into everything like a fool?" Selina asked.

Bruce couldn't really argue with that. But still, "Selina, give me back his wallet."

Selina pouted. "Only if you promise to tell him not to keep in his shiny gold belt like an idiot."

"I call him an idiot almost hourly every time we see eachother.

The throaty chuckle again. "Aww, that's sweet, Batman. If you'd only said that you played for the other team, I would have given up on you long ago."

"I do not..." Bruce began indignantly, almost forgetting to say it in Batman's voice. Then he growled, and insisted, "Give me back the others' money too."

Selina pouted again, and handed over valuables belonging to at least a half-dozen Justice League members. The very last thing she handed Batman was one of his own credit cards. Not the Bruce Wayne credit card he carried in one of the most secret compartments of his suit, but one of the ones issued to a John Smith. It was still more than any one else had ever been able to pickpocket from him...more than he should have ever let anyone get close enough to steal. She always was an unpredictable woman.

6


	11. Chapter 11

Title: Inherited Traits, Learned Behaviors, and Unexpected Gifts Chapter 9

Series: Inherited Traits  
Author: Susana  
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, etc., belong to DC or USA.

**Chapter 11: Not a Predictable Woman III**

_Robin is going to be a very good soldier. A __**very**__ good soldier._

-Bruce Wayne (New Earth)

_My world is all just shades of grey, Batman. That's why you'll never really understand me._

-Selina Kyle (New Earth)

_Don't kick the cat again... __**Ever.**_

-Selina Kyle (New Earth)

Summary: Despite continuing interruptions, Bruce finishes his story about Selina in the early days.

Chapter 11: Not a predictable woman

Bruce's story had been interrupted again. Three more times, in fact. Once by a call from Peter to Bruce, asking for Neal's help with figuring out how to sweet-talk Smitz the forger into giving up his backers. Then, a call came in from Dick, or rather, Nightwing.

"B, is Neal up?"

Bruce just frowned, but he did grudgingly put the phone on speaker.

"Ok. From your silence I'll infer that's a yes. Ask him if he has an idea why a long-time snatch-and-grab kidnapper might recruit a conman, and then essentially turn him over to he police."

Neal, intrigued, leaned forward, "Perhaps because of a pre-existing grudge? Or as a smoke screen...maybe as..."

Despite himself, Bruce was drawn into that discussion, which ended with Dick - well, Nightwing - going out to wrap up the kidnapper for the police. Bruce considered Neal oddly then, which was unsettling.

"Dick only called for me because Selina is at the opera with Damian." Neal pointed out.

Bruce grunted, but didn't stop giving Neal that strange, weighing look. Fortunately, Selina called.

"Tim is joining us for dessert." She told them shortly. "If we all disappear in a ball of fire, the source of the disruption will be that little French restaurant on fifth street."

"Damian AND Tim." Neal commented hoarsely, with great amusement, "That always adds a certain je ne sais quois to any evening."

"Your sympathy is noted, Neal darling," Selina purred dangerously, "and will be remembered."

Neal laughed, but there was an undertone of worry. His mother was not to be trifled with. One of the times he had really annoyed her, he'd ended up basically babysitting Damian at the country club for a day. Thinking of Damian caused Neal to think of Dick, which made him think to ask...

"Hey, Bruce. What did Mother - Selina, I mean- what did she think, of you taking Dick on as an apprentice?"

Bruce had gotten up during the last phone call to stare out the window. Still standing there, he answered, "She did not approve, and she went out of her way to tell me so. She did wait until a night when Robin wasn't with me."

"She would." Agreed Neal, unsurprised. "Mother has class."

Bruce's lips twitched slightly, perhaps in agreement. "I told Selina that my apprentice was none of her business. She gave me a very disappointed look, and then didn't speak to me for two weeks. I could sense that she was nearby on some of those nights, though. And then, once...once she got to know Robin better, Selina stopped protesting. Or at least to me."

Neal considered that with his head tipped to one side, unconsciously mimicking one of Selina's gestures. He wondered what his mother had thought that Batman's ending up with a nine year old solving crimes with him, whether it had reenforced her faith in her decision not to tell the man about his child...or whether the mere fact that Batman had obviously cared about Robin might have made her doubt it.

"After a time," Bruce continued, "Selina started protecting Dick. Not obviously, not if she could help it - Selina knew male pride. But she did. She'd always had a thing about children, so perhaps I shouldn't have been as surprised as I was. It wasn't long before the entire rogue community and even many of the city's common criminals knew that the Cat would abandon any endeavor, often with prejudice, if in the course of it Robin was harmed beyond being tied up to get him out of the way."

"That she did things like that...it continued to confuse me. Dick, too, by then. He didn't approve of Catwoman at first, any more than she approved of him, although for different reasons." Bruce paused, looking out at the dark night through Neal's window. "Dick's opinion changed, in time. Not quickly, as most of the time when Selina intervened to help us, she did so - or at least seemed to do so - for reasons which had nothing to do with us. Particularly if Robin was threatened, Selina somehow turned up, either openly helping us due to some alleged slight from that particular criminal, or simply underfoot, such as tangling up Harvey Dent before he could drop either Robin or the Judge."

"Oh." Interjected Neal, "that time with the lion."

Bruce's raised eyebrow told Neal that Bruce saw that story differently, but he did share it with Neal anyway.

"Harvey," Selina had snapped on that long ago night, hands on her hips, "Did you tell Tom Blake about my favorite nature preserve?"

Harvey Dent swore at the interruption, then flipped a coin. It fell with the unscarred side up.

"Selina, sweetheart," Harvey said, " I'm trying to commit a crime here. Don't you see? Judge about to go into acid, Batman's little bird about to be traumatized for life?"

Selina cracked her whip. "Harvey, Tom Blake took a lion - one of the lions I've known since she was a cub - and kidnapped her. I had to rescue her from being forced to eat a security guard. I really don't care about Batman, right now. As a matter of fact, If you ever, ever again tell someone as abhorrent as 'Catman' where one of my furry friends lives again, you'll wish that you were Robin or that Judge."

Batman made his move then. The judge and Robin were both rescued safely, although Robin was benched for two months in an attempt to teach him a lesson about caution (which hadn't worked out quite as Bruce had intended, but that's a different story). Harvey Dent, from his cell in Arkham asylum, made a very large donation to Catwoman's favorite nature preserve. Because, as Selina said not long after, boiling judges and junior vigilantes in oil is one thing; allowing harm to come to a friend's lion is another.

The whole incident did not endear Catwoman to Robin. But other things did. She never treated him as if he were an afterthought, or a joke, when we encountered one another. I think the turning point was a night when I had grounded Robin, on the grounds that a case was too dark for him. She realized that he was there before I did - and covered for him.

Bruce stopped talking at that point to glare at Neal, as if that had been Neal's fault.

"I'm sure that she had a good reason." Neal replied soothingly.

Bruce's glare intensified. Then he shook his head, "She said that it was better to know where he was. And he did end up being helpful, that night. There was a child witness, one who wouldn't talk to the cops, or to me, or even to Selina."

"Not that night, but most nights...she teased Robin, a lot. Which he hated, at first." Bruce reminisced, "But when Dick realized that she took him seriously as a crime fighter, he started joking back. And it went from...sharp-edged to almost friendly." Bruce frowned, "In fact, sometimes I felt like Dick had a better relationship with Catwoman than I did."

"Especially during those times when she would openly help us. Dick just accepted it, but I had trouble understanding why she would - I always doubted her motives. Later she would tell me, "Of course you don't understand, Batman. You see the world as either good or bad, and even most people don't fit into those categories neatly. Me, I'm like a cat. And cats exist outside of conventional morality.'

Neal smiled softly, more than half asleep.

"On different occasions," Bruce continued, seeming to be talking to himself as much as to the nearly comatose Neal, "Selina would help us, and then make the excuse that she'd only done so because she hated clumsy murderers, or clumsy thieves, coming into Gotham and making a muddle of things. Other times, she would just show up when Joker was about to start a murdering spree in a public place, and tell him that it was tasteless. Even though things like that - well, they made her life much more dangerous."

Bruce considered the sleeping Neal, and then remarked in conclusion, "Your mother is not a predictable woman."

5


End file.
